hey y'all

i'm olivia, welcome to my t-word blog! 20, white, she/her and he/him. atm i'm very into sanders sides, but i'll also post general t-word stuff and/or other fandoms if i feel like it. IF YOU FIND YOURSELF BLOCKED AND YOU THINK IT WAS A MISTAKE: hmu through either asks or DMs, i block blogs that are blank or haven't posted in at least a year, so lmk and i'll unblock you!

[oliviaischillin1204]

Pinned Post Time!

It's been too long without a proper pinned post, so this is just a little introduction to my blog

(read all the way to the end of the post for a surprise :3)

~

my name is olivia, my pronouns are he/him and she/her, and i'm a white queer american in my 20's!

in terms of tickling, i've been in the TFB for at least 10 years, and have had this blog since late 2019. i am pretty solidly a switch!

~

T-FIC MASTERPOST HERE

AO3 HERE

Current top fandoms: Sanders Sides, Batman/Batkids, Critical Role Campaign 4, Hazbin Hotel (but i reblog a LOT a lot of fandoms, even ones i'm not really familiar with lol)

Queued posts are tagged 'reblog dump q'

Pictures/gifs/videos of real life tickling are tagged 'irl tickling'

~

Rules/FAQ:

No teasing or roleplay, period.

I block freely and often.

I don't often respond to DMs, ESPECIALLY from blogs who are not in the same fandoms as me. Creepy messages get you blocked. If you're messaging to talk about fanworks then go ahead!! But again I still don't hold conversations very long online- nothing personal, I just don't like it!

I do accept fic submissions, but please read my guidelines here!

I've never taken any commissions before, but if anyone's interested then lmk and I'll think about it!

~

If you feel financially stable and feel encouraged to drop a couple bucks for my works, it would mean the world to me!

Paypal: paypal.me/olliedollie1204

Venmo: @Olivia-Howard-80

Ko-Fi: olliedollie1204

Cashapp: $olhoward

ok here's the surprise under the readmore :3 (no jumpscares i promise)

thank u for ur time :3 love u mwah

[a-simple-lee]

Going soft (Project Hail Mary)

Ler!Grace, Reader, Rocky

Synopsis: Cuddling takes a turn when Grace realises your back is ticklish.

Author's note: Based on this ask I received and could not stop thinking about...I still will not stop thinking about it. This one is a lil short, apologies guys! I still feel so rusty after like three years away from this blog :,)

You were in hell. Normally, being pressed up against the wall of the Hail Mary, surrounded by a multitude of pillows and blankets was part of your bedtime routine. Rocky needed to watch you sleep, after all. Even feeling Ryland snuggled up behind you was par for the course. Having only one other human on board meant you both eventually got comfortable around each other, and took the psychologically necessary cuddles where you could. Ryland was good company anyway, and he gave great hugs - you were both quite content with the situation. On a regular evening, this would not be too bad...suicide mission aside, of course. But right now, Grace is being an absolute bastard.

It seems he's not going to sleep just yet, and has been absently tracing patterns on your torso to pass the time. It would be harmless, were it not for the fact it really tickles. His hand does little circles where it's resting against you, on the part of your back where it blends into your sides. Sometimes he switches directions, completely oblivious to the way it makes your breath catch with the giggle you keep shoving down. It's maddening. You try to curl deeper into the sea of blankets and close your eyes. And then he starts tracing lines, instead. From the top of your side down to your hip. You can't help it - you let out a small huff, and grab his wrist. Ryland lets out a low chuckle next to your ear. "oh. I was wondering why your breathing had gone all funny." You pull the blanket up to cover your face a bit. Rocky laughs at that, in his own melodic way. He'd probably picked up on your breathing way before Ryland did. You're kind of grateful he didn't point it out. "Really? just from this?" Previously established bastard repeats his movements, and you repeat your shove at his hands. "Grahace-" There's a pause. He's plotting. "Oh man, I'm sorry. I mean, I would stop, but I'm trying to get comfy." He makes a point of snuggling in further, so you're trapped between him and the wall when he starts tracing along your back again. "Don't-" "Don't stop? Okay, well, if you insist-" "I'm going to kill you," "Your back is ticklish, you're not doing anything, you big softie." "Is ticklish back unusual for humans, question?" Correction: there are two bastards on the ship. "Oh yea, I don't think mine is. I mean, even if it is, it's not this bad." Ryland's got you shaking, clutching onto the blankets for dear life and hoping they muffle the various squeaks caused by his fingers swiping over your shoulder blades. It's so gentle, and it's hard to focus on anything else. "Plehease-" You manage to get out, coherency rapidly beginning to elude you. To your horror, you realise it's because the tickling is somehow making you sleepier. Ryland picks up on the slight slurring in your voice, and genuinely coos. The noise on its own makes heat rush to your ears. He presses on, continuing his conversation with Rocky like it's nothing. "...And it definitely doesn't make me want a nap." His fingers ghost over your tummy, and you flop around uselessly against the wall. The longer he continues, the more you laugh, and the harder it gets to form anything resembling a sentence. Your muscles feel weak, jellified by the fatigue and the giggling. Despite yourself, you move towards bastard number one, turning to hide your face in his shoulder. "This is actually making you sleepy, isn't it?" "Noho-Ryland!" "Oh, we're using first names, now? Ooh, this must be bad." His free hand strokes your hair in mock-comfort. You're too far gone to insult him in response, and instead seek solace by gripping onto his shirt. He wraps both arms around you, two hands making mirrored patterns on your back. "It's a shame you can't tell when people blush, Rocky, because I've never seen someone this red." Rocky contemplates this, and decides further enquiries are needed. "Where else is unusual to be ticklish?" "...I've heard some people have ticklish hands," Grace states conversationally, and you feel him laugh at your embarrassed groan. He nods towards you. "I'm guessing this one does, too." "Too, question?" "Uh- well, um- I meant-" It's not too hard to grab onto his wrist from your current position. You might be half-asleep, but you know an opportunity when you see one. "Hey, waitwaitwait-" He's already laughing. You haven't even touched him yet. "Thanks, Rocky." You finally remember how to speak, and bend Grace's wrist back to trace over his palm. He would fold like a cheap lawn chair if you weren't in the way - he curls backwards, immediately dissolving into squeals and pleas for mercy. "Nononono- nohoho!" Ok, maybe this wasn't quite hell after all.

[californialee]

Woke up feeling like it would be a lot of fun to have someone straddle my hips and tickle me until I can’t remember my name

[grey-anon]

Unpracticed

jason todd x gn!shy, anxious reader

switch!jason, switch!reader

roughly 2.8k words

little bit of exposition, hurt comfort with the anxious reader, and then tk fight fluff :’) I hope you enjoy it.

note: I’m going to categorize my gn!reader fics as platonic or romantic in the same way ao3 tags do. insert character(s) x reader is romantic, insert character(s) & reader is platonic.

You met Jason Todd on an online book review forum. You thought he was much more well informed than you at first, a lot of his critiques were scathing.

While some were valid, you came to find out that Jason was also just very, very angry at the world. He’d tried to make people hear him in both of the lives he lived. It was never as rewarding as he hoped it would be.

So… he instead took to snarking vaguely on the people who wronged him in these book reviews. It was no wonder they were so reverent.

You sent emails back and forth for a couple weeks. It was awkward with an air of, “Surely this meager online friendship won’t go anywhere. That wouldn’t be safe.”

Wrong, and actually very ironic. On a whim, after saying he was going to be passing through Tricorner, you met in the park at eight o’ clock at night. Looking back, you couldn’t believe how desperate for a friend you were at the time, that was practically a death sentence in this city.

You were meeker than Jason expected. He was bigger than you ever could have predicted. Despite him looking like, for lack of a better word, a thug, you didn’t become part of a statistic.

It was a nice night. You walked around the city with no destination in mind, and you just talked. You both had your guard up, but there was something magnetic behind those walls that drew you together regardless.

Seeing each other once most weekends turned into two or three days out of the week, always preplanned and cordial. That formality began to fall after a few months, and you started seeing each other every free night you had. It was just a given that if you didn’t need to be anywhere else, you wanted to spend that time together.

After a miserable night driving home from out of state, you turned on the lights in your apartment to find Jason sitting on your living room floor, folding the now clean pile of laundry that had started to build up because of just how much he was in and out of your place.

If that wasn’t “a sign” you didn’t know what was.

You remember asking him if he’d been here while you were gone, not at all accusingly. You also remember the look on his face despite that, Jason was so embarrassed.

Getting to know him better, it made sense. Jason didn’t like people very much, and the way you shared your spaces, it served a unique purpose. Regardless of whether or not he was home, going to Jason’s place felt like him, and sometimes that was more than enough.

* * *

You haven’t been living together. You didn’t think you were ready, but for nearly a week now you’ve been staying with him.

Jason pushed himself harder than any person should. It came in peaks and valleys, he’d make himself sick, and even then he would keep going because there was almost no one who could reason with him.

You would consider yourself a non-confrontational person. You weren’t very strong willed, much unlike Jason, you didn’t like to push. You almost couldn’t. He continued to absently acknowledge your suggestions to take care of himself, you escalated to telling him you were worried, nothing changed.

You were so frustrated, but it couldn’t even entirely be with Jason. It was with the situation, and that you weren’t being heard. It didn’t take long for him to notice how dejected you were when you came to see him, you weren’t answering the phone either.

He quietly adjusted his behavior, begrudgingly allowing himself to rest. For your sake, he tried to hide the begrudging part.

You didn’t want to be ignorant in any way, you understood the importance of what he did, and where he did it. It wasn’t wrong for him to take a break, especially when he was burning out like this, and that had to mean it wasn’t wrong of you to press him on it.

The shame weighed heavy on you, and you were starting to have a hard time rationalizing it. The impoverished families in Crime Alley needed Jason, and shouldn’t suffer just because you’re worried. Jason shouldn’t suffer either, though—

“You’re quieter than usual.” He prompted.

You were sitting on the ottoman at the foot of his bed. You came in with something to say, but couldn’t remember what anymore.

“I think I just spaced out. Sorry.” Your vision refocused.

“No, uh… it’s fine.” Neither of you were any good at this. You knew that he probably knew how in your head you were getting. The problem: where do you start with that?

Jason quietly sighed and placed the book he’d been struggling to pay attention to on the nightstand. “C’mere, sit with me.”

You did. When you didn’t have the words to say, naturally, actions came next. You propped up a pillow to support your back and leaned against the headboard, nestling into his side. He pulled you closer with a delicate hand, cheek falling to rest atop your head.

Jason could be so tentative about touch. A delicate hand was something that he’d spent years and years having no use for. He was afraid he might be a little unpracticed, and didn’t want to scare you, not when you were already so skittish.

But you liked that better anyway, and you both regularly reaped the benefits of the fact that you had been and continued to take your time.

He cleared his throat. “What’s on your mind?” That was easy enough.

“Just anxious.” You were telling the truth. That was the big picture.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Jason wasn’t letting you get away with it. While what he said was funny, that was a little too true.

You gave him a look. He grinned and squeezed you against him, jostling you about. An awkward smile twitched on your features.

“Omigod, stawp…” You slurred under your breath. He loosened his grip.

“If you don’t want to tell me, I’m not gonna make you. But, uh… whatever you’re thinking, let it go. I’m sure you came up with some very imaginative what-if scenarios, but none of that is real.”

You frantically nodded along. Jason bit back a smile. Little too much all at once.

“I… didn’t know how to say it before, I’m bad at this. I had to think about it. It’s… it’s special that you kept showing up for me, even if it was hard for you. I knew you were nervous, and I should have said something earlier, I was just… exhausted and not really thinking.” He filled your silence with an awkward cough.

“Wow… fanks.” You said it with a certain cadence, feigning bashfulness. Making a stupid joke felt like the only right answer in that moment. Admittedly, you wanted to stick to your guns. You’d spent long enough being sad.

Jason’s expression was primarily wry as he side eyed you, but there was a twinkle of fondness in those eyes. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

Your posture straightened, your closed mouth smile now self assured.

“You look so proud of yourself.” He said with a chuckle in his voice.

“Shouldn’t I be? I, like… domesticated you.”

“What does that have to do with anything? I— Domesticated me??” Jason sounded genuinely caught off guard.

“Like that corny, ‘I’m only soft for you’ bullshit?”

Your silence was telling.

“Well I— I dunno, it’s like that one saying: ‘if the shoe fits…’” You knew you were pushing your luck right now, but every time he’d tried to play-wrestle you in the past, you just laid there. That kind of defeats the purpose, therefore defeating Jason. He would get so worked up about it, it was great.

You failed to consider that he had any other options, and made a garbled yipping noise when he started to poke at you at random. Naturally, you went to poke back, and nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound Jason made, the way he jolted.

You weren’t sure if he was being serious. “…You gonna let me win?” You asked with a small smile.

Jason scoffed, sliding his jacket down his arms and tossing it to the side. He had better mobility in his t-shirt. This was getting serious. You reached out to tweak his side before he could ready himself, and couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He choked out another little squeak, collapsing onto that side.

You were able to draw your hand back before he squished it beneath him. You didn’t waste any time. You couldn’t see yourself scoring an opportunity like this again any time soon. Both your hands jumped around his upper body, you scuttled your fingers across whatever surface you could reach.

With the thought that he was being tickled put into Jason’s head, everything was making him laugh. You weren’t the most experienced play fighter, but felt like you were going through this on easy mode.

“Noho!” He whined, shaking his head about when your fingers found his neck. His hair got all puffy as it created static on the blankets.

“Is this real? Why are you so ticklish?” It was a genuine question.

Jason momentarily lifted his face from the covers to give you an incredulous look. “I don’t know??”

“Aw… why not?” The touch trickled down his shoulders, to his arms, until they eventually reached his hands. You weaved your fingers together, playfully dancing Jason’s hands about with yours while he caught his breath.

You chose to be merciful, he looked so sweet like that. Occasionally something you’d said would catch him by surprise just enough to hear him laugh like that, but it wasn’t often. He always tried to stop himself, like he thought he was being obnoxious.

Objectively, he wasn’t. It was a cute and dainty sounding laugh, especially when compared to Jason being so imposing. Even if it were to be noisy, you still thought the world should get to hear it more. At the very least, you wanted to hear it.

Your swooning was swiftly interrupted. You should have known better, he could be so competitive. He wasn’t going to manhandle you the same way he would with family or a friend, but you weren’t exempt. Jason was still himself.

“…Ah.” Your right hand was pressed beneath his knee, the left held captive over your head on a pillow. He’d settled his weight over your hips. In layman’s terms, your life was over.

“Yeah. Ah.” Jason let out an amused huff.

“Okay, um… you can let me go now.” You put on a polite smile, attempting to sit up. Your lower back didn’t even lift from the bed.

It was worth a try.

“Jason.” You muttered, the closest you could get to scolding him. You were at a bit of a loss, you’d gotten used to him not being able to bring himself to retaliate against you. You didn’t provoke him often to begin with.

Jason smiled down at you. “What?” His pointer finger began to trace a path, starting at your right wrist and moving up. The feeling left goosebumps in its wake, and the corners of your lips twitched.

All the fizzling breaker box in your brain managed to put out was a panicked “buh” sound.

The squint in Jason’s eyes told you he found that funny. “I see.”

His journey continued as it reached your shoulder. Down your side, across your lower tummy, up the other side, then coming to a stop under your arm. He didn’t lift his finger, he just left it there.

You writhed and twisted uncomfortably as anticipation began to pulse throughout your body.

“Wh… Why are you literally strategizing this?? Are you insane?” You breathed out.

“I definitely used to be. Criminally.” Jason tapped his finger twice. You winced, but were mostly snickering at his commentary.

When he decided to stop psychologically torturing you, he took to the tapping again, slowly moving up and making goofy sounds like he was dialing a phone or something. Your face went right into your shoulder, your eyes squeezing shut. It wasn’t at all enough to keep you from laughing, but you could live with that.

Your knees battered against Jason’s back, you scooted up and down on the mattress, trying to dislodge his grip on your wrist. It wasn’t working. You may just die here.

“I can’t, I cahan’t—“ You wheezed through your giggles. You let out a mirthful cry and slammed your face back into your shoulder when he finally cut to the chase, fluttering his fingers against your very much trapped armpit.

It ended as soon as it began, Jason pulling back with a grin.

“You’re an actual supervillain! Just tickle me like a normal person!” You said that with more passion than you thought you would.

Jason sat back with a huff. “Fine.” He scanned you. His eyes landed on where your shirt had ridden up.

“D’aww~ your little belly’s quivering…” He cooed.

Your head jerked down. It was? You properly short circuited, burning in the face. You didn’t, couldn’t, think to defend yourself when he let go of your wrist. Both of his hands slid up your shirt, repeating that same unbearable fluttery motion.

You were starting to think you could lose your voice if this went on too long. You didn’t laugh like this, or at least you didn’t think you did. It must have been in there somewhere, all things considered.

Your hands went to grab at Jason’s wrists. A squeak strained past your lips when he leveraged that to lift your arms again. Just when you didn’t think he could be any worse, his head lowered.

“You—!“

You weren’t sure what you were going to say to him, but your voice cracked and it broke off into a loud whine when he placed a flurry of kisses against your stomach.

Your knees shot up, once again colliding with Jason’s back. You were running out of ideas, which meant it was time to pull out what always worked from your toolbox: playing dead. You were getting tired, it was easy enough to give into him even with your mind all in a tizzy, pushing you to squirm.

Jason was being a pain, but you were safe here.

“I give uhuhup… no more, pretty plehease…” You giggled out.

Jason lifted his head. “Well… since you asked so nicely.” If you’d known it was as simple as a “pretty please,” you would have tried that earlier, but nothing was ever that simple with him.

You clumsily rolled over onto your front once he was off of you, face pressed against the blankets. Somehow, you could sense Jason grinning.

“Am I picking on you? I’m sorry.” He crooned, not meaning a word of it. But his hand came up to card through your hair, you’d accept that as a peace offering.

“You’re too good at that…” You rolled over onto your back to look at him, still a bit winded. Jason tilted his head.

“Do you tickle your siblings a lot or something? I know you have so many of them.”

Jason scoffed. “You think I’m that nice to them?”

The truth was that he was victimized to much more tickling than he could keep up with doling out, but he was going to hide that from you for as long as he could. He had the time between now and until you met Dick, if he had to guess.

“Look, I’m not one of those people that, like… hates being tickled.” You didn’t want Jason to think he did something wrong.

“But that wasn’t nice.” You pressed, your face as stern as it could get.

“You…” He exhaled. “You don’t know how they are. I think the only person you could put me in a room with who I wouldn’t start a fight with is my sister.” She would beat my ass either way.

You took that in. “Oh…”

“It’s better than it used to be.” Jason quietly followed up. “I made some friends and picked you up off the street.”

You smiled when he squished up your face between his hand. He snorted at how silly that made you look.

“Well… yay.” You weren’t the best at being exuberant.

“Yay.” Jason echoed teasingly.

“You’re such a bully today.” You mumbled, aimlessly tugging his arm around in retaliation.

“I am, aren’t I? I normally treat you like a little princess.”

You grimaced at him, and he caved, his voice wobbly with mirth. “Poor baby.”

Your blood pressure began to lower as Jason pulled you against him. The side of your face landed against his chest, a large hand cradling your head. You exhaled and melted into the embrace. You could only handle teasing for so long before you started to overthink it.

Jason knew that, more often than not, he was overly cautious. It was okay to push the envelope every now and then, you’d learned some new things today that boosted your confidence. After all, it wasn’t like you were the only ticklish person in the room.

[could-be-crofters]

Payment for Pranks

A/N: This story comes from the prompt list concept I had created. I decided to make them their own individual fics. With that being said, enjoy 💚❤️

Sidenote: I do not know exactly when I would've written these since it was only very recent that I added dates to my works. The closest date I can think of is between 2021-2022.

Character(s): Remus Sanders, Roman Sanders

Concept(s): Remus is ticklish, Roman tickles Remus, Brotherly play fighting,

Pairing(s): (Platonic) Creativitwins

Prompt(s): "Admit It"

Synopsis: The two had been playing pranks on each other and Remus took it too far. Ticklish hijinks ensues

Trigger(s): Caps (Let me know if there are any more)

Word Count: 321 words

~~~

"ADMIT IT! AD! MIT! IT!" "I’M NOT ADMITTING SHIT!"

Every so often, a fight breaks out between the two. It ranged from mixing up alcohol markers with washable ones. All the way to putting hair dye in shampoo or conditioner bottles. Each brother would take turns playing small pranks on each other. That never ended well because of one gaining a super sore ego and wanting revenge.

"Admit it~!" "ROHOHOHOHOHOHO– STAHAHAHAHAHAHA–!!"

Remus was hiccuping between laughs, which was not the weirdest noise he’s made in his life but nonetheless.

"Sorry. I can’t say I know who ‘Ro’ is? But I do know who Roman is." "I HAHAHAHATE YOU!!"

A dramatic gasp left the fanciful aspect’s mouth.

"How DARE you!"

Remus curled up, batting away Roman’s fingers with his tentacles.

"On the 8th day of Christmas, my brother gave to me~"

A middle finger was thrown up in Roman’s direction, causing the other to go silent with laughter as his knees and hips were both being attacked. Remus cackled and snorted like a pig.

"NAHAHAHAHAHAHA– GEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAH!! YOU’RE KIHIHIHILLING MEHEHEHE!!" "Glad that you are having fun! Now onto the side quests!"

Remus was still curled up, trying to buck Roman off of him. A soft buzz sounded throughout the room, as Roman got off of Remus. The younger of the two twins helped Remus up, practically dragging him out of the room. Remus whined that he wasn’t finished.

"So you admit that you enjoy being ti–" "I WAS RELAXED AND THAT’S THAT!" "Right."

Remus scoffed, stating that he was relaxed and that was that. Roman rolled his eyes as he bounced over to the door. A few moments later, the lights softened to a soft blue before Roman entered again, in his leopard form. Remus was already up on his feet again.

"No mercy?" "Not at all! Come at me, brother!"

Tackled hugged to the ground, to start the process all over again.

[hyacinthanon]

Hello! Hope you've been having a good day! I've got a little idea for you! Lee! Tim, Lee!Damian, Ler!Bruce Damian has a big exam tomorrow, dealing with idk- multiplication, division- something math related. He has to study but can't seem to focus. This is stupid, he's a goddamned assassin. Heir to The Demon's Head. Why does he have to do this, he doesn't need to know this. Bruce walks in, his son is crumbling up the paper he was attempting to write notes on, and  riping it into tiny pieces. Okay, that's not good. They talk. Damian begrudgingly rants, and despite him seeming to not care about not understanding- his eyes a slightly misty, and his face is flushed. Bruce devises a way to help him A- Study, and B- turn those negative thoughts away. Tim just happened to be in the room ans was dragged into this. Bruce positions his youngest sons away from each other, so that they can't see one another, kind like a sandwich hug with him in the middle- if that makes sense. Anyways game is simple, he gives each of Tim's tickle spots a number. 1 through idk- ten? Up to you, but anyways- he gives each them a number, and gives Damian a simple equation where the said number is the answer. He will select one of the (whatever number) spots, and will focus on driving Tim batshit- (pun intended) insane. Damian has to solve the equation and give him the answer, once the correct answer is given- he will move onto another spot and give another equation. If the wrong answer is given, then both of them get wrecked for about three to five minutes. Tim, cannot help Damian, which is hell- since he probably knows all the answers, and he can't save himself at all. If he gets caught helping, that's five minutes, worst spot. Meanwhile, Damian has to somehow concrete on solving the problem, while listening to Tim's cackles and shrieks, and fighting the anticipation of every answer he gives could be the one to doom them both. He could try and use his knowledge of how Tim sounds, when someone tickles a certain spot- but his brain is too mushy and his thoughts are too hazy to focus on anything but trying to solve the problems. After all this, they have a actual study session and Damian passes his exam the following day. Also bonus- uh, Damian spends the entire testing period flustered, because everytime he thinks back on a question, he thinks back on the study session. Also the methods apparently works, so...that'll be used against them soon. (Also excuse my typos pls- exhausted after doing a final project at tge last minute- and overall just tired, hope the idea was clear enough- might send another part soon-)

Have a nice night- Jester Anon:)

JESTER?????? this is. this is so good!!!!!!!! I've been rotating it in my brain all day. perfect delectable food. how kind of tim to help his little brother in this moment of great need sdhdjfhd you are so so welcome to send more parts!!! good luck with your project!!

[blushy-tigerrr]

speaking of small acts of platonic physical affection, i think we should bring back lil tiny random pokes to the sides/ribs

my friends in middle and high school used to do that shit ALLLL the time and it would embarrass the hell out of me, but now. i’m honestly craving it :’))

what’s so wrong with wanting your friends to accidentally find out you’re ungodly ticklish so they can use that information against you??? sue me!!!!

[hyacinthanon]

Anatomy of a Crimelord

a/n: does hyacinth anon only post at midnight est?? apparently lol. look it's a weekend man. reblog scheduled for the morning though! or...well, the later morning sdfskd

summary: Jason's about to follow through on his "no, I'll get him later" threat to Tim at the end of this fic. Little does he know, though, that Tim has been planning for this, and has even recruited Damian to help him try to take Jason down.

or: Jason is trying to be a good older brother and let the kids have a win every now and then. He hadn't anticipated just how ruthless they could be, and is experiencing regrets. And a lot of tickles.

lee!Jason // ler!Tim, ler!Damian (implied imminent lee!Tim and lee!Damian hehehe)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Tim tapped his notebook against the side of his leg as he strode towards the library, armed with a brand-new pack of General charcoal pencils and two Zesti still attached together by their plastic rings. He’d gone through every single possible scenario a dozen times – and, yeah, maybe that was bordering on obsessive, but it was his first time preparing for something like this, so a little extra attention to detail couldn’t hurt. 

He checked his watch. 9:15. Perfect – that gave him plenty of time to get his plan in place. 

Step one, of course, was securing an ally. That was what he was about to attempt. 

Instead of bursting into the library, he paused at the threshold to lay eyes on his quarry, who predictably was sitting sideways in one of the armchairs with a sketchpad and a blanket. 

Tim knocked once on the doorframe to announce his presence. “Hey, Dami.”

“Drake.” Damian’s dark eyes flicked over to him in greeting. “What do you need?” 

“Hey,” Tim said, but he kept his tone light as he made his way over to plop down on the floor in front of Damian’s chair. “What makes you think I’m gonna ask you for something? Can’t I just chat with my favorite little brother?” 

Damian just gave him a flat stare. P“Your only…younger brother.” He emphasized younger, as opposed to little, and Tim bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. 

“True, true. I do have a proposition, though – hey, don’t roll your eyes at me, brat – but you can say no.” 

With a put-upon sigh, Damian flipped his sketchpad shut and turned fully to face Tim, one hand propping up his head. “What?” 

“Help me tickle Jason,” Tim said bluntly. He willed his face not to redden on the word tickle, and was probably only partially successful. “He’s gonna come after me today for the whole thing with Dick last night. I think between you and me, we can take him down.” 

Damian’s eyebrows practically tried to crawl into his hairline, and Tim allowed himself a quiet smile of satisfaction; Damian was ever so rarely rendered speechless. But he’d figured that the straightforward suggestion would be the easiest way to enlist the demon brat to his cause. Give Damian some clear parameters and an objective deliverable, and the kid was hell on wheels – in the field, and the few times they’d played team-based games. 

“Tt. Has your mind finally snapped?” 

“Oh, come on, Dames,” Tim wheedled. He knew that since Damian was still facing him, talking to him, he was at least intrigued. “Don’t you want some good-old-fashioned payback? Jason’s been on a roll lately – I know he’s gotten you a bunch.” 

A sullen flush appeared on Damian’s cheeks as he glowered. “He’s gotten you, too, Drake, we can all hear you.” 

“Which is exactly why we should team up! Little brothers have to stick together, y’know? It’s a rule.” 

“Please. If it’s anything like Richard’s so-called rules–”

“Hey, if he gets to make things up, we get to make things up,” Tim interrupted, holding up a hand. “And the first rule of being a little brother in this household is that you have to band together against the older brothers.” What Tim didn’t say was that, with the big brothering streak Jason had been on over the last several months, there was a chance that he’d let them win. But that couldn’t be counted on, and Damian would have no interest in being patronized. 

Damian pursed his lips, frowning, as he mulled over the suggestion. A few minutes ticked by, but Tim didn’t rush him. The whole concept of playfighting, which included tickling, was still new for his little brother.  

“I think,” Damian said at last. “That this is an asinine idea that we will live to regret.”

Hearing the we will, Tim sat forward. “But you’ll help me?” 

Damian nodded once, then his eyes flickered to the package sticking out of Tim’s pocket. “What is that?” 

“Oh, this?” Tim yanked out the charcoal pencils and tossed them over to him. “General.” 

“All four–”

“All four grades, yes.” 

After turning the packet over in his hands to examine the quality of the instruments, Damian glanced back at Tim with – well, if not exactly a smile, the hint of one. “Bribes, Drake? Surely your negotiating skills are better than that, unless you spend your time at the company like Father’s…other persona. Not that it would be a stretch, of course.”

Tim just rolled his eyes and grinned. “They’re yours either way, brat. Noticed yours were getting worn down.” He picked up the cans of Zesti, dangling them from two of his fingers. “I also have a caffeinated offering.” 

The reproach in Damian’s eyes was eerily similar to Alfred’s more withering looks, but he kept looking over at the soda even as he tried to stare Tim down. 

“It’s disgusting, artificial syrup with no flavor profile–”

“Yeah, and you want one.” 

“...if you’re insisting, as part of this…” Damian waved one of his hands in a gesture that absolutely wasn’t cute and Tim couldn’t say that or he’d get skewered. “Brother pact.”

“Great!” Tim yanked a can free and tossed it at Damian’s head, fully expecting him to catch it. “Our pact is sealed, then.” 

He waited until Damian had the chance to actually open his Zesti and drink some, then opened his notebook. 

“So, I’ve been taking notes on what Dick usually does when he’s got Jason pinned…” 

━━━━━━━━━━

It was a beautiful midafternoon and Jason headed towards the library with mischief in mind. Well, it wasn’t really mischief, it was correct and required revenge – balancing the scales, evening the playing field, whatever. He knew that Tim was in there, probably trying to hide from him. Too bad, kid. Jason couldn’t just let Tim tickle him like that, even if Dickwing had started it, with no retribution. 

And, come on, it’s not like the Baby Bird minded. He still melted into a mess of squeaky giggles and uselessly thrashing limbs every time Jason so much as poked him in the stomach. Tim was an incredibly competent fighter; he’d get away, or put up more of a struggle, if he really wanted to. He was still damn adorable, though, and Jason was beginning to realize that Tim would always, always hold a particular kind of baby brother trump card, especially when he bothered to unclench a bit and relax. Same for Damian.

Luckily, Jason was about to enforce some mandatory relaxation time. 

He found Tim in the library sprawled out on the beanbag – on Jason’s beanbag – looking at something on his phone. 

Jason took a heavy, threatening step into the library. 

Immediately, Tim’s eyes flicked over to him and widened almost comically in panic. “Jason!” 

“Hey, birdie,” Jason said, and he couldn’t resist letting out a bit of evil grin. “It’s time we had a talk.” 

Halfway through his sentence, Tim was already scrambling to his feet even though his ankle caught in beanbag fabric and he almost went sprawling forward onto his face. “Uh – I actually have somewhere to be! Like, anywhere. Right now.” As he shuffled a few inches forwards, his foot caught again and actually tripped him this time. 

“Oh – shit!” 

When Tim went plummeting towards the floor, arms flailing out in a miserably uncoordinated attempt to break his fall, Jason darted forwards and fell to his knees, barely managing to get his shoulder under Tim’s stomach to break his fall. Tim’s breath flew out of his lungs in a whoosh and he stayed there for a second, trying to catch his breath. 

“Christ, kid,” Jason grunted. “Can’t have you surviving the horrors of Gotham and beyond only to buy it on the goddamn hardwood floor.”

Tim snorted weakly. “I’m almost offended that you thought I couldn’t catch myself–NOW!” 

As Jason flinched away from the sudden volume, a dense weight slammed into his back and knocked him off balance while two arms wound around his neck in a facsimile of a chokehold. He went careening onto his side – fucking ouch – beneath the weight of one, no, two little brothers. Fuckshitsonofabitch. 

And he should have fucking known, because obviously Tim wouldn’t have had a fall that bad off of a beanbag, of all things, and also because if nothing else, Tim could be a tricksy little brat when he put his big ol’ brain to it. Honestly, Jason was kind of surprised this hadn’t happened earlier. 

“Hey, Damian,” he gritted out. 

“Todd,” Damian replied, tone clipped as he knelt on one of Jason’s arms, pulling the other back to join it. 

Jason had fallen on his side, knees bent in one direction, and Tim had gone for efficiency rather than elegance and chose to sit on his legs, right up above his knees. Damian, meanwhile, had grappled Jason’s wrists as they were falling, and was tugging them behind his torso. It was a bit of a strain, but nothing painful. 

The problem, though, was that Jason had absolutely no damn leverage. And his little brothers knew it.

“Hi!” Tim said brightly, smacking his hands together with a clap.

The rug itched against Jason’s face as he turned his head back just enough to be able to see Tim’s toothy grin. He wasn’t sneering or smirking – he genuinely looked pleased, it was his ‘successfully implemented an experiment and it worked’ smile, and…shit, Jason was going to have to pretend to be annoyed, wasn’t he? With all that had been going on lately, the kid needed a win. 

Damian did too, probably. 

Great. 

“Hey there, brat,” Jason said. His neck twinged, so he let his head thunk back to the carpet. “What’s new in Timbitland?” 

“Funny you should ask,” replied Tim, and suddenly someone’s slender fingers were nibbling little pinches into Jason’s exposed side. 

Yeah, he’d known this was coming, but that didn’t stop a strangled snicker from shoving out past his teeth before he clamped his mouth shut. 

“See,” Tim continued. “I figured you were gonna try and come after me today, so I enlisted Damian here to help me.” His ticklish pinches trailed back down Jason’s side, getting worryingly close to his hip. “It’s the perfect chance to try out my observations – see, I have notes. I’ve been paying attention to what Dick and B usually do to you…for self-defense purposes, of course.” 

Hm. Maybe sending Tim sprawling and kicking Damian off was actually a good idea – but no, no, that would probably injure them, and Jason wanted to avoid that. 

Of course the nerd had notes. He’d probably made a fuckin’ spreadsheet. 

“I’ll end you,” Jason said, yanking on his arms just to make Damian struggle a bit more to hold him down. “Both of you, Dames.” 

Damian, who’d been quiet up to that point, just tsked. “You would try, perhaps.”

God, Jason’s little brothers were growing up to be brats. 

“Aww,” said Tim. “It’s cute that you’re trying not to laugh.” 

“I–hey!” Jason yelped when Tim skittered over his lower ribs. He jerked, instinctively trying to curl his legs and arms in to protect his vulnerable torso. 

“So, Damian.” That was Tim’s briefing voice. “According to my extensive research, we all pretty much agree that Jason’s worst spot is his hips. Does that match what you’ve observed?” 

After a second, Damian grunted in the affirmative. 

“Pay attention, this is important for you to know. It’s your first lesson on Crimelord Anatomy. So, Dad usually does this–” 

Suddenly Jason’s mind blanked for a second when Tim abruptly squeezed his hip a few times in rapid succession. His whole body spasmed, trying to curl up again, as an absolutely mortifying shriek escaped his lungs. “Ti–HIM!” 

Ever committed to being an annoying little shit, Tim just laughed, and it sounded delighted. “Obviously, it works. Makes him all shrieky, like, right away.” The whole time he talked he kept squeezing and digging his thumb into Jason’s hipbone, and Jason cackled as ticklish shudders made him flinch and jerk.

“This seems effective,” Damian said in an impeccably neutral tone that was somehow worse than if he’d just teased Jason straight-out. 

“It totally is. But Dick usually doesn’t go for the squeezing and stuff, though – he just…here, hold on.” 

The accursed squeezing finally stopped and Jason gasped, sucking down fresh air in big gulps while he could. Suddenly someone – Tim, still –pushed up his shirt, and then – oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck, then there were ten goddamned shitting fingers scribbling featherlight over his hip, and over the softer skin right above it, and Jason was actually going to die right there in the library. He couldn’t describe why this was so much worse, not being able to see who was tickling him and enduring the light skitters that somehow made his brain collapse into goo. There might not even be a word for how hard he was laughing, one side of his head pressed into the carpet as he twisted his shoulders, tried to drag his knees up to his chest, anything to make Tim’s fingers stop. 

“T-Tihihimmy,” he finally gasped. “Shi–shihit, cut it ouhohaha–out!” 

Tim didn’t take his hands away, but he stilled his fingers even though Jason’s skin was still crawling and he kept laughing into the rug. 

“Notice a difference?” Tim asked Damian. 

“Quite.”

“Okay, so that’s his hip. Well, hips, but you know what I mean. Going for his kill spot right away might seem strange, but it’s like...you gotta tenderize meat, yeah? Similar thing. Because he won’t giggle unless he’s already tired and out of it.” 

Jason felt his ears burn and hated that this was getting to him – his little brother, his easily flustered and often squeaky giggle brat, shouldn’t ever be able to get the upper hand on teasing. At least Damian wasn’t also joining in. 

“Crimelord Anatomy lesson number two, Dames,” Tim said, and Jason groaned. “His stomach.” 

Oh, Christ.

“He’s generally ticklish there.” One of Tim’s hands dug into Jason’s upper abs, wriggling into the muscles. “Light laughter, and such.”

“Fuhuhuck you!” Jason managed through his snickers, and he definitely didn’t snort. 

“But…” The tickling hand started making a swooping path down near Jason’s navel. He instinctively tried to suck in his stomach, and his legs twitched again. “He has a giggle spot here, too, it’s right under his belly button–” Tim wiggled a single finger into that soft spot, and indeed, Jason couldn’t stop the hiccupy giggles from pouring out of him. His cheeks burned, and he turned to smash his face into the carpet so his little brothers wouldn’t see him grinning like a snot-nosed toddler. 

Damian shifted his grip on Jason’s wrists, moving to pin them down under his knees instead. The change barely registered until a second hand joined Tim on that wretched spot and Jason wheezed into the floor, shuddering as his instincts desperately tried to pillbug. 

“Aww,” Tim cooed. “Isn’t it cute?” 

“It is…endearing,” said Damian after several seconds, and he sounded grumpy about it but he kept tickling, letting his fingers wander around Jason’s stomach. “In a childish manner, of course.”

“That’s the whole point,” Tim chirped. Chirped. “So, anatomy lesson two-point-five is that you have to pin his legs to tickle him here and make him all giggly and loopy, because this Gotham-native crimelord will attempt to disguise himself as a pillbug to throw off potential attackers.” 

Jason was maybe going to kill Tim for that one. When he tried to say as much, all that came out were more of those stupid fucking giggles, and he gave up. All he could do was laugh and accept the fact that any and all intimidation credit he’d built up was dissolving right before his eyes. 

“Alright, we’re nearing the end of the allotted time slot for today’s class.” Tim clapped his hands together again. “But there’s one more foundational piece of knowledge for you.” 

“Do share, Drake.” 

“This is, what, lesson three? Okay, so. This crimelord might not be representative of the species, but he’s like…squishier than putty for back tickles. He can’t function. It’s kind of hilarious.” Tim continued on with the cadence of someone giving a pitch to a room full of business executives, like he was attending a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises. 

“There’s here, on his lower back–” Tim shoved his hand under Jason’s shirt to run his nails over the small of his back, which was enough to have Jason spasming again as he shrieked into the floor and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s like the nuclear launch codes for driving him crazy. That, plus – here, if you could just–”

And suddenly Damian’s slightly clumsier fingers were prodding at Jason’s hip. 

“S–shuhut up!” Jason screeched, trying to roll onto his front. “Dames, dohohon’t you dahahahhare!” 

“See?” Now Tim did sound a little smug. “RIP Jason’s brain cells. Anyways, so there’s that, but his spine is also good. And his shoulders. And basically everywhere. Kind of like playing chords on a piano.” He leaned forward, shifting in his spot on Jason’s legs to tickle over both of Jason’s shoulderblades while Damian kept tormenting his hip, now using both his hands – one to squeeze at the bone, the other to spider gently over the skin right above it, and Jason lost his everloving fucking mind and screamed. 

The laughter that erupted from the very bottom of his being echoed around the library, maybe even rattled the windows, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t even breathe, and his nerves sparked and stretched taut with ticklish input that overloaded his brain. He stopped trying to thrash away and just melted there into a heap of shrieking cackles beneath his clever, devious little brothers. They weren’t supposed to know how to get him this good, it wasn’t fair. In fact, it should be illegal. Jason was going to call the army, or the police, or the Justice League –

“Holy fucking hotdog.” 

Well, speaking of the police. 

Of course. Of course, his older brother was going to appear now, when Jason was being tickled into an incoherent mess by their younger brothers. Why should he get to retain any dignity?

“Dick!” Tim said, and he blessedly, mercifully stopped torturing Jason’s shoulders. Damian seemed to take that as his cue, too, and lightened up his own tickling, but kept his palms flat on Jason’s hip. It helped stamp out the leftover phantom tickles. 

“Is that – is that Jason?” Heavy footsteps came closer, but Jason didn’t have the energy to crane his head up to see his older brother.

“Surely your powers of deduction haven’t entirely eluded you, Richard,” Damian said, and holy shit, the kid was actually teasing Dick. 

Tim rolled off of Jason’s legs and landed on his back in Jason’s line of sight, hands folded over his stomach as he gave Dick a beatific grin. “We really got him.” 

Legs freed, Jason immediately curled up into a ball. Or, as close as he could get, with his arms still stuck under Damian. 

“I’m proud of you, Baby Bird,” Dick replied. He crouched near Jason’s head, ruffled Tim’s hair, then nudged his elbow into Jason’s shoulder to jostle him a little. “I’ve never heard you shriek that loudly, Jay, I thought one of the kids was hurt.” 

At ‘kids’, Damian clicked his tongue as he slid off of Jason’s wrists and hands, but he didn’t protest. Maybe he was finally learning that responding with ‘not a child’ didn’t help his case. 

Since Jason still didn’t have the capacity to use his words, he just grunted and closed his eyes again. 

“He got all blushy and giggly, too,” Tim said with a grin in his voice. “Just like when you get him.” 

Dick laughed. “You’re learning well, Timmy. You too, Dames. Hey, what’s that?” 

Something rustled, maybe the turning of a page. “Drake has been collecting evidence on Todd for several weeks, now, in preparation for this.” 

“Never change, Baby Bird. ‘Anatomy of a Crimelord’? …oh, this is good. Mind if I take a picture?” 

Jason’s eyes flew open and he scowled up at Dick, who was giving him a shit-eating grin. “Absolutely not, Dickface.”

In answer, Dick, who was holding Tim’s bullet journal, lightly thwacked it against Jason’s forehead. “I might not need it, you know. I’ve already got my own inventory for each of you.” 

Tim sputtered something, and Jason couldn’t hold back his own grin. It was sweet how quickly a little teasing could turn Tim back into that squishy little giggle brat, when he wasn’t being a ruthless menace to Jason’s sanity. 

“So, what prompted this? Damian, how’d Tim drag you into this?” As he voiced the question, Dick let himself fall sideways into a half-sitting, half-lounging position, propped up on one elbow while he reached out to smooth Jason’s hair out of his face. 

“Well, I knew Jason was going to come after me,” Tim said. “And of course Damian helped me, it’s part of the rules.” 

Smiling indulgently at him, Dick asked, “What rules?” 

“Little brothers have to stick together. It’s a pact.” 

The corners of Dick’s eyes crinkled with the hint of one of his mushier expressions, but he somehow held most of it back, probably to avoid embarrassing Damian. 

Speaking of the other brat that comprised Jason’s package deal of little bothers, Damian smoothly pushed himself up and stepped over Jason to settle crosslegged between Dick and Tim. 

And maybe it was a snowy day in hell, because Tim shuffled over to rest his head on Damian’s knee, and Damian, after a second’s consideration, rested his hand on top of Tim’s head. 

In a flash, Dick whipped out his phone to take a picture of the moment. 

Send it to me? Jason mouthed. His older brother winked and nodded as he pocketed his phone again. 

“You know,” Dick said. “There’s the other side of that little brother pact, guys.” 

Damian raised his eyebrows. “Surely there aren’t yet more of Father’s offspring to contend with.”

Jason snorted. He was pretty sure he knew where Dick was going. “Not that, demon brat, don’t worry.” 

“Maybe it’s more like the other side of the equation. Little brothers have to stick together, but so do big brothers.” 

Tim’s face visibly locked in a neutral expression as he stared into the middle distance, suddenly not willing to look at Jason or Dick. Damian, for his part, went entirely still. 

Now this, Jason could get behind. He shot Dick an exaggerated grin. “Whaddya think, Dickwing? How should we do it?”  

“Hmmm…” Dick did a very obvious sweep of both Tim and Damian, a mischievous grin playing over his face. “Maybe one of these movie nights, we stick Dami between us on the couch and each snag one of his knees. I bet we could get some really cute snorts and yelps out of him underneath all that sweet laughing.” 

A half-strangled noise came from Damian as he, in a rare display of surprise, just stared back at Dick with wide eyes. 

Jason smirked at him, then glanced back at Dick. “What about the Baby Bird?”

Tim scowled at him, squinting, but a faint pink flush was already coloring his face. His hands fidgeted where they were clasped over his stomach. 

“Good question,” Dick mused, but his eyes twinkled as he assessed Tim. “I feel like, between the two of us, his ribs do get counted pretty frequently.” 

Jason hummed in agreement. “Maybe we should try something new. Branch out, even.” 

“What about raspberries on his ribs? We could each take a side.” Dick winked at Tim, who squeaked and crossed his arms over his chest. “That leaves hands free to tickle his tummy, too.” 

It wasn’t often that Jason got to see Tim turn redder than a fire hydrant in less than a tenth of a second, but that did it. Tim flipped over to hide his face in his hands, still propped up on Damian’s leg. 

After watching them squirm for a few more seconds, Dick let out a long sigh and reached out to ruffle Damian’s hair. “Not today, though, obviously.” 

“Sure,” Jason agreed. “Not today.” 

Soon, though. And this time he wouldn’t be taken off guard again. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

so as you can see I did tee up a potential sequel here so if anyone wants to see that I guess let me know??

[wholesome-lee-trash]

Fandom: Marvel/MCU.

Characters: lee!Bucky, ler!Steve, Tony

Ships: Steve x Bucky (Stucky), Steve x Bucky x Tony, maybe?

Word Count: 1074

Warnings: tickles, tell me if I need to add more!

A/N: Bucky deserves to get tickled. I love him. It's finals week chat. Wish me luck

Five Stages of Grief

It was quiet in the living room. Too quiet, for it being Steve, Tony, and Bucky. Bucky was quiet, but that was normal. The other two, though, they were always arguing about something or another. Honestly, the way they argued, nobody was sure if they were friends or not.

"Bucky goes through the five stages of grief every time he's tickled." Steve says casually.

Bucky looks up from his book. He should leave. He should leave, now, before Steve decided to show Tony what he meant by that. He stood up, closing his book quietly.

"How do you mean?" Tony asked.

"I'll show you." Steve says, quite evilly for Captain America. Bucky immediately tried to run the other direction. Fortunately, being trained as a soldier - and then his years with HYDRA - had taught him to always search for an exit before a situation he'd need it.

Unfortunately, Steve was a super soldier, too.

"PUT ME DOWN!" Bucky demanded, shoving at Steve's shoulder. This was much different from when they were kids. Steve would probably crumple and die if he tried to pick Bucky up back then.

"Yes, yes, in a second." Steve brings Bucky back to the couch, dropping him down unceremoniously. Bucky's first thought was to scamper, but he was not quick enough before Steve sat on his upper legs. Their hands grappled, neither one wanting to give.

"Get off!"

"No, I gotta show Tony that you go through the five stages of grief when you're tickled!"

"I do not! Get off of me!"

"See, Tony? This is denial. The first stage."

"Oh, I see." Tony commented unhelpfully, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. Bucky sputtered, glancing over at Tony. Oh, that was how Steve was playing this.

Unfortunately, during his momentary distraction, Steve had gotten out of the grapple and immediately went to squeeze at his sides. Bucky's attention returned, and he grabbed at Steve's wrists, squeezing tight.

"NO! Steve!"

"Hm? What's up, Buck?"

"Stop this!"

"Stop what?"

"THIS!" Bucky wished he could do a grand gesture, pointing to all of his stupidity right now, but alas, holding onto the wrists was more important.

"What am I supposed to be stopping?" Steve teases.

"Rogers!" He growls, fighting back the giggles that were bubbling up in his chest. He is Bucky Barnes, for crying out loud! He was an assassin for 70 years! He does not giggle like a child! Steve shouldn't even feel comfortable tickling him, he's killed people!

That thought hits him. Steve is still, after all these years, after all the things he's done wrong, comfortable enough to tickle him. That meant something. It made him feel soft inside his chest.

"And now, he's moved on to anger. Stage 2." Steve explains to Tony.

"I see." The smaller man nods, watching carefully.

"I hate you." Bucky's tone was more like a threat, but Steve knew that he didn't actually hate him. It was Bucky, his best friend from before everything. Bucky could never hate Steve, not really.

"Mhm." Steve punished his words by instead digging his thumbs into his hips, doing those slow circles that drove him crazy.

"NOHO!" Bucky yelped, now holding on tight to the blondes wrists. "Steve! Steheheve, please!"

"Bargaining." Captain America smirks down at him. What an infuriating face.

Tony, across the room, just smiles and nods, watching the two get along so well. Or maybe Bucky would kill Steve after this. Guess he'll have to wait and see.

Bucky made a growling noise that was quickly covered up by helpless giggles. He just couldn't stop them from coming out. He tried to push Steve's hands away, squirming in place. He couldn't get very far, though, considering another super soldier just about as strong as him was sitting on his waist.

And then Steve moved his horrible fingers to his ribs.

"STEHEHEVE!" His squirming picked up tenfold, shoving and hitting at Steve's arms. He'd probably get bruises. Luckily, he heals pretty fast. "STOHOP, I'M GONNA DIE!"

"Oh, you're not gonna die. Stop being dramatic." Steve fondly rolls his eyes, then glances at Tony. "Depression stage."

Bucky hit the couch over and over again, getting a bit overwhelmed by the tickly sensations. Steve, having tickled him a million times before, recognized this. He moved to Bucky's sides, using much lighter tickles. His nails seemed to skim right over the fabric of Bucky's shirt. And Bucky's shirt did absolutely nothing to dull the sensation.

"Nohoho." Bucky's voice was definitely complaining.

"No? Do you want me to go back to your ribs, then? I could count them for you, make sure they're all there." Steve teased with that stupid, beautiful, comforting smirk plastered on his face.

"No!"

"I didn't think so. Just hold still, Buck. I've got you."

Bucky just giggled. That's all he could do, really. His hands held onto Steve's wrists, but they weren't doing much to help. His head tilted back, completely worn and unable to fight the tickly sensations anymore. He didn't even try to stop his laughter anymore.

"There you are." Steve coos. "Stage five, acceptance."

"Huh. He really did go through the five stages of grief." Tony says, watching the boys quietly from his seat. He was very curious. He had cataloged that Bucky seemed overprotective of his ribs. That must be his tickle spot. He wondered distantly what would happen if Tony ever tried to tickle him. More importantly, however, was that he wondered what Bucky would do in retaliation. Which he assumed would happen in the very near future to Steve.

"Yes, he does." Steve hums, taking his hands away from Bucky now. He is just smiling down at him fondly.

Bucky, meanwhile, was taking in deep breaths like he had been starved of air. Which he had been, thank you very much. That was such an experience. The adrenaline, the sparks of lightning up his spine, the stupid tingly sensation that he hated to admit, wasn't so bad, at least coming from Steve. He might gut someone else if they try.

"Steve." Bucky said in a low tone, carefully neutral. The usually happy Captain stiffened at the tone.

"I think I'm gonna go... fold the dishes." Steve quickly got off of Bucky and left the room.

"I'm gonna kill him." Bucky threatened low. But he didn't actually plan his murder. Only his torture. And it would be ten times worse than what he just went through.

[tklpilled]

thats crazy 😭😭 who would do that

[nhasablogg]

HC time: Shane can tell that Ilya likes playful tickles even though Ilya refuses to admit to it, so he sneaks in quick little tickles when Ilya reaches for something in the cabinet, when he's doing pull-ups in their home gym, or just when they're cuddling on the couch 💖💖 He also loves to give Ilya massages, and sometimes makes it tickle a little on purpose while acting like he has to idea why Ilya is squirming 🤭

Cuuuute 🥹

[nhasablogg]

The head is only a dangerous dead weight

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Characters: Morgan/Reid (pre-slash) + the BAU

Summary: When Morgan realizes their latest case involves a man he saw at a tickle club a few days prior, he is quickly thrown into his worst nightmare (which might be a blessing in disguise). Ler!Morgan

Warnings: tickle kinks, kink club, murder

Words: 5.9k

[Read it on ao3]

It took Morgan several years to get properly back into it. At first it was about adjusting to being in the BAU, then the problem with time. Then it was just about daring. Kink scenes weren’t new to him, but seeing as they spent a big chunk of time profiling sexual sadists, he’d started feeling somewhat weird about his own proclivities. He feared they could smell it on him. This strangeness he couldn’t help.

He never would’ve returned had he not spent most of his life up until that point accepting it and, once he’d done so, exploring it. He didn’t have to dig very deep to realize he missed it, and so, on a particularly dreary Saturday night when his bones were no longer exhausted after their latest case, he went back.

Tea Quells - a funny name when you thought of it - didn’t serve tea, but they had great non-alcoholic options. Morgan felt slightly too tense to enjoy the thought of drinking, so he ordered a soda. Which was one of the less great non-alcoholic options but he wasn’t in the mood for a substitute. Felt he needed the sugar rush to make it through tonight.

He leaned against the bar and pondered that notion. He’d once been comfortable enough there that he didn’t need anything in particular. Just the right mood and some time. The hope he wouldn’t get called in for a case in the middle of it all, like that one Denver case. As he’d sat on the jet, nose all but stuck in the case file, he’d wondered if they could tell where he’d been. He’d been agitated those days, teetering the line of returning and never fully daring. He’d not been doing anything that night. Had only decided a drink at Tea Quells couldn’t hurt. He’d been two down when Hotch had called, and he’d realized with a sinking heart he wouldn’t have been able to drive.

“I need someone to pick me up,” he’d said, fighting off an all familiar panic. Feeling like a loser for being so ashamed.

“Where are you?”

And Morgan had run out, afraid Hotch would somehow locate him by thought alone. “Downtown. Not sure. I can take a cab.”

“I’m sure someone’s going your way. I’ll call you back.”

In the end, it had been Reid who’d picked him up. Reid, who always rode the metro unless they needed them to come in late and quickly. Reid, who wasn’t rubbing sleep out of his eyes but still looked like he was weeks behind on rest.

Morgan knew that incident was what made it all the more difficult to return. Why he opted for a soda rather than a beer. He could pretend he’d forgotten it, only that was nowhere near the truth. He couldn’t get Reid’s eyes out of his mind, the eyes he rested on him as he slammed the car door with barely a word. The way he hadn’t asked him what was wrong, probably assuming Morgan had been in the middle of something sexual, and how he’d wanted so badly to correct him but hadn’t wanted to have to explain.

That last part had caught him off guard, which hadn’t improved his mood whatsoever.

He ran a hand over his head now, already slightly too hot beneath the lights. The music was loud enough that you couldn’t hear the laughter, though he could see it all around him. People bending over as fingers prodded at their most sensitive spots. People leaning against each other rather than fighting it off. That part had always interested him the most, how people would go against bare human instinct for a moment of pleasure. He’d always been the one to tickle others, and so he’d never felt what they did, which made him enjoy it all the more. Watching them, trying to profile them, in the least serious sense of the word of course. But he couldn’t help it. He enjoyed trying to guess their reactions before he even touched them. Who would giggle, who would fight. It was thrilling, especially when the result was so different to how they acted otherwise.

He took another sip. While he’d been out of the scene, he’d occasionally engaged in tickle fights. Normal people did that. Normal people didn’t overthink things like that. Only Morgan was never able to fully relax. Was always wondering if he’d crossed a line. And so he’d tried to not think about it, which also meant he rarely tickled anyone at this point.

No one noticed. Why would they? It wasn’t as if that was a regular part of the days of BAU agents.

It should be, he thought as the song changed. It might make them feel a little human.

“Hey you.” He turned toward Mary, who he used to tickle a lot back in the day. She was fun. Great reactions. Into bondage. Never made it weird afterward. That was one of Morgan’s boundaries. A session was never more than a session. If either of them wanted it to turn into something more they had to discuss it beforehand. But as a general rule he never slept with his lees, even if the session could occasionally turn sexual, with prediscussed consent. He also never dated his lees, unless he’d been dating them before they became his lees. That had never happened, because Morgan didn’t really date anyone for long enough to share this.

“Hey.” He grinned as he accepted her hug. “Long time no see.”

“And whose fault is that, hmm?”

He laughed. He’d forgotten she was sassy. He could never tickle that out of her, which always made their sessions extra fun. “Sorry. Life got in the way.”

“Anything serious?” Concern flickered across her face, but he waved her off.

“No, no, just haven’t really had the time.”

“Well, let me fill you in then.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the all familiar room, which had looked pretty much the same since Morgan had come here the first time. “Ashley and Lara got together after their hundredth session or something.”

Morgan laughed. Leave it to Mary to share all the gossip. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“In that vein, Greg and Amanda broke up.”

“No.”

“But here’s the thing. They still do sessions together!” She shook her head as Morgan laughed at her incredulousness. “They claim no one tickles them like they tickle each other, but hello toxic codependency.”

“What about you then?” he asked as they entered the “cave” as the locals called it, with its neon red lights to indicate raunchier behavior.

“What about me?”

“Do you still switch?”

“I’m mostly a ler now, actually.”

“Is that so?” His teasing tone came mostly out of habit, and she slapped him on the arm also out of habit.

“Shut up. I’ve come to really enjoy it.”

“Well, that’s good. I’d been hoping to do my comeback debut with you, but I guess not.”

She put her hand on her chest. “I’m honored, but you have plenty of old lees and also lots of new ones here. Do you still mostly do both?”

Morgan nodded. He mostly tickled women, but would occasionally tickle men, which he also refused to think too hard about. Laughter was laughter, and he enjoyed a good hysteric laugh. Men were fun to pull apart, seeing as they usually had a lot more pride and spent way too long trying to keep their composure. He took another sip of his soda and scanned the room, realizing that maybe he needed that. Needed to know he could still turn a man into a pleading, giggling mess, after all this time. Needed to know not all men killed and raped and hurt. Some of them laughed and were listened to when they begged for mercy.

“That one-” Mary pointed very un-discreetly toward a man Morgan vaguely recognized. “-has been experimenting with being a lee recently. That’s fun, right?”

“It is.” He looked at him, took in the masculinity. The muscles. Morgan bet he could make him giggle, but something was off. It wasn’t that he couldn’t imagine him throwing his head back with laughter, or that he would let Morgan overpower him at all (maybe after a struggle, maybe immediately). Hell, he’d never been one to care for people’s looks when it came to this, but the muscles suddenly bothered him. Insecure, some might call him, but it wasn’t that. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Not interested?” Mary had a way of always seeing through him. That was why he felt so comfortable playing around with her. Full transparency, she always told him and let him pull her apart until she was satisfied.

Damn, he’d missed her.

“No.” He shook his head and kept scanning the room, trying to pinpoint his mood. “I’m not even sure I wanna do a session tonight, but- oh.”

Mary turned toward the room. “Oh? Oh who?”

“Oh no one.”

“Derek.” She poked him in the ribs only because she knew she was allowed to, but it caught him off guard and he jerked away with a laugh that surprised him. Loud. Carefree. “Tell me this instant.”

“Okay, okay, Jesus, stop.” He grabbed her wrists, squeezed them once. “Fuck, you’re a good ler.”

“Oh, I know. Now spill.”

“It’s just- that guy. Over by the bar.”

“That one? He’s cute. I think he’s new, I don’t recognize him.”

“So you can’t tell me anything about him.”

She grimaced. “Unfortunately. But hey, if you like ‘em scrawnier-”

Morgan suddenly realized he did. Realized he longed for boyish timidness and the huge amount of trust you had to display to let someone much bigger than you pin you down like that. And maybe, if he hadn’t been so panicked at the idea that maybe he was just like them, just like the bad men they chased who enjoyed the idea of overpowering others much weaker than them, he might’ve realized who he actually couldn’t stop thinking about was Reid.

“I think I’m gonna leave,” he said, suddenly feeling as if he couldn’t breathe. Whatever Mary saw on his face, she didn’t ask any questions. Simply led him out of Tea Quells and hugged him for a moment too long before they parted.

*

Morgan felt hungover, which was crazy considering it had been two days since he’d been to the club and also hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol anyway. Maybe it was a blessing that they walked into Quantico to find a new case waiting for them, though they swiftly realized it was a local case that wouldn’t require them to fly anywhere. Maybe that was a blessing, too.

“A young man was found just this morning,” Hotch said, sliding the files across the table. “Tied up in his own bedroom with his throat slashed. No sign of forced entry. His roommate found him after coming back from visiting home during the weekend to their door being unlocked.”

“Holy shit,” Prentiss cried as she opened the file. “His face-”

“Entirely slashed too, yes. We were only able to identify him from a birthmark on his arm, and the fact that it was his address.”

“Is this a one off thing?” Morgan asked, trying not to look too closely at the picture in front of him. He would do plenty of that later.

“So far no crime similar to this has been called in, but this is an unusual and cruel killing, so they decided to get us on the case immediately. It helps that it’s local. He was found downtown.” Hotch grabbed the remote. “21-year-old student Ted Jones was studying to become a nurse. Roommate described him as quiet and hardworking. Said she kept urging him to go out and have fun once in a while, too.”

“So do we think he listened?” Morgan looked up and nearly bit his tongue off.

On the screen before him, the man he’d seen at Tea Quells only two days earlier. The man who had been leaning against the bar while speaking with the bartender. A quiet timidness to him, though he’d been speaking with excitement. Morgan had been able to pinpoint his type immediately. Young. Inexperienced. Finally taking a step toward a more authentic life.

He felt sick. He felt sick.

“Morgan, are you okay?”

It was Reid. Fuck, it was Reid. Reid who looked so much like him, too. The glasses, he had thought, but it hadn’t only been the glasses. It was the sharpness of their jaws and the leanness of their build. Most of all he had reminded him of Reid way back when, a young 23-year-old who had just started at the FBI of all places. Who was certain of his capabilities but not of much else.

He blinked at him. How many times had he not told him that he needed to let loose? How many times had he almost gotten Reid killed because of it?

“I’ve seen him,” he said, not voluntarily, but he couldn't lie, not about this. “I saw him on Saturday.”

The room turned toward him. “Where did you see him?” Hotch asked, already grabbing for a pen.

“At a club. It’s, uh, a kink club. Don’t ask. Don’t-” He ran a hand over his face. “Just don’t ask. It’s called Tea Quells. I saw him for only a second. Thought he kind of looked like Reid, that’s why I remember him.”

“Tea- what was that? Tea Quells?”

“Yes. It’s down by the port.” If Reid remembered having picked him up from that area, Morgan didn’t know. Refused to think too hard about it right now.

“Did he look like he belonged?”

“He looked- giddy.” Morgan shut his eyes. “Like it was his first time there and he was excited. God, that’s messed up.” He opened his eyes again. Looked straight at Hotch. “I left soon after, so I don’t know if he went home with anyone from there.”

“Well, if it’s a kink club,” Rossi started, but Morgan shook his head.

“It’s the type of club where… you don’t have to go home in order to participate. They have, well, resources. But if there was no sign of forced entry.”

“It means anything could’ve happened between you seeing him and him ending up dead.” Hotch closed the file. “We need to go visit this club. And talk to his roommate again. Morgan, Reid, Prentiss, you take the club. Me and Dave will go to the crime scene. JJ, you talk to the press. Apparently word has spread rather quickly.”

She shook her head. “People always get ecstatic whenever something happens locally to the bureau. I’m on it.”

*

“So.” Prentiss dragged out the word as they settled in the car. “Have you been to this club before?”

Morgan huffed. “I have the right to a lawyer.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not a strange thing to wonder.”

“I guess not.”

“But you’re not gonna answer?”

“But I’m not gonna answer.”

She nodded in the passenger seat as Morgan started the car. “Noted. Respected, even.

“I’m surprised.”

“So am I, actually. I figured this is uncomfortable enough as it is.”

“Well, that’s kind of you.”

They spoke so casually, but he bet Prentiss could tell his heart was about to beat out of his chest. He was grateful for her discretion. Grateful that Reid, who was sitting in the backseat, didn’t say anything at all.

“So this club,” she continued. “Is it based around a specific type of kink, or is it a standard, like, BDSM-club or something?”

“It’s a specific type of kink. Which ties into BDSM in some ways.” He took a turn. Kept his eyes on the road.

“Interesting.”

“Is it a tickle club?” Reid suddenly asked from the back and Morgan nearly crashed the car.

“Uh.”

Prentiss looked back at him. “Wait, is it?”

“From the name to the way Morgan vaguely describes it, my guess is yes.”

“Wait, Tea Quells-”

“Tickles.”

She laughed. “Oh my god, that’s amazing.”

“I think this is the worst day of my life.”

Prentiss patted his arm. “Hey, no judgment from me. To each their own and all that.”

“I wish I had been murdered instead.”

“Woah, too far.”

“Sorry.” Morgan exhaled. “Yeah, too far.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way, though Morgan couldn’t determine whether that was better or worse.

“I need to tell you something,” he said as they stepped out. “I mean, since you kind of already know now. They do know me here. Or well, many of them do. I haven’t been here in a minute, but since it’s the only club of its kind here-” He shrugged. “Not many more places to go, so it tends to be the same crowd. Anyway, the thing is. No one knows I’m a cop and I kind of would prefer to keep it that way. I just didn’t know how to tell Hotch that.”

Prentiss was nodding. “We’ll use that to our advantage. You go in as a concerned customer and we go in as the BAU. We’ll get different perspectives that way.”

“I could kiss you, Emily Prentiss.”

“I would prefer you didn’t, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Morgan laughed, suddenly feeling slightly hysterical. “Okay. All right. Should I go in first?”

“Whatever you think is less suspicious.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in like five minutes. But don’t talk to me in there.”

Prentiss saluted. “Got it, boss.”

He caught Reid smiling, ever so slightly, and that made him feel lighter. Which was messed up considering the circumstances.

Tea Quells in the daytime, for it was open during the day too but was mostly a regular bar, was jarring. People were spread out throughout the premises, nursing a drink or watching the TV screens or both. Some were playing pool - were those pool tables always there? - and most alarming of all, no one was laughing.

Morgan realized in slight horror that he didn’t recognize a single face. Not even the bartender’s.

“Hey, uh,” he started, frowning at the disinterest he was displaying as he met Morgan’s gaze.

“What can I get for you?”

“Nothing. I mean. I came because I heard about Ted.”

The bartender blinked. “Who.”

Jesus Christ. He didn’t know. Did anyone know?

“Nevermind,” he said and backed away, wondering, suddenly, if the killer was in there, picking his next prey, or laying low, or both.

He had to call Mary, he suddenly realized. Holy shit, was Mary okay? What if the next one would be one of his own? His lees. His people. But he didn't have Mary’s number. He was too paranoid to get anyone’s number.

He met Prentiss and Reid at the door. “I don’t recognize anyone and no one knows about Ted. We’d have better luck coming back tonight to the regular crowd.”

“Would they be here on a Monday?”

Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that. “Well, we can try, right?”

And so they did. Morgan with his clubbing clothes, riding toward the tickle club with his coworkers. What was his life, truly. And why was something that was once his nightmare something he was handling rather well, all things considered? He had only had like three panic attacks about it.

They didn’t talk about it, of course. He probably would’ve died if they did. And he was too good of a profiler for them to kill him off like that.

“I’ll go in first,” Prentiss said and unbuckled her seatbelt. “I think I’d like to get an independent feel of the place. Give me like ten minutes.”

Morgan leaned back in his seat and watched her enter Tea Quells. “You wanna come sit up here while we wait, pretty boy?”

Reid’s presence beside him was different to him simply being in the car. Morgan could feel him almost everywhere. Could feel the heat of his skin and the way he was looking at him even though Morgan refused to return the gaze. He was embarrassed, he suddenly realized, because guys who looked like Reid had caught his attention before, though he had never acted on the instinct to go up to them and ask to tickle them. Because none of them were Reid.

That thought alone made him feel like a fucking creep.

“I’m sure you have questions,” he said, knowing Reid would never ask.

“I do,” he admitted. “I wasn’t sure whether you would appreciate my asking though.”

“I’m sure I can handle one or two.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Morgan shrugged. “I mean, it’s just the two of us anyway, so.”

Reid didn’t say anything immediately, which prompted Morgan to look at him. He’d pulled his gaze toward the club, so obviously choosing his words. “Do you go here because of what it offers?”

“Do I participate, you mean?”

“In more direct terms, yes.”

“I, uh, do, yes. Though I was honest about not having been here in a while.”

“What a welcome.”

“Tell me about it.”

He could sense Reid wasn’t finished, and so he waited him out, pretending all the while as if his face wasn’t on fire.

“Do you do the tickling?” he finally asked. Morgan appreciated the lack of tact this time.

“I do. I don’t really do the receiving. Or well, I never have. I like being in control.” He turned toward him, suddenly desperate for him to understand. “Of myself, I mean. Not because I crave control of others, really, but there’s trust to this, right? People trust I will respect their boundaries and be a safe person for them to let go around.”

Reid was nodding. “I never suspected otherwise, Morgan.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m this freak. Like our killer, or our other unsubs.”

“I would never think that.” Reid was frowning. “I- I know you see me as this inexperienced nerd or whatever, but I’m aware of kink scenes and I think they tend to be the most respectful places for sexual activities. And I don’t judge you for being involved with one. Sure, it surprised me that it’s this, but it’s not like I have thought about it, so any one would probably surprise me. In fact, now that I think about it I think it makes sense.”

“You do?”

“You’re caring and playful and like to push people’s buttons, but only if they respond well to it. This seems right up your alley.”

Morgan exhaled. “Okay.”

“Has this been bothering you a lot?”

“Yes.” No point in lying now. “I haven’t come back in a while because I struggle with it. In relation to this job, mostly, because I accepted my inclination years ago. But this job makes me feel predatory, you know?”

Reid shook his head. “I hate that you feel that.”

“But you understand why I do?”

“I do. I just want you to know it’s not true, but-”

“But?”

“I’m sure many of us have felt that way.”

“Have you?”

Reid hummed. Had Morgan not been so close, the car not so quiet, he might’ve missed it.

He leaned back. “This job sure messed us up, huh. Too bad we’re so good at it.” He opened the car door, the coward’s way out. “Let’s go. I think ten minutes are up.”

*

The way it played out was simple. Someone had seen Ted leave with a man around his own size at midnight, and neither of them ever returned. The other man was called Jacob, and Jacob was a regular switch who wasn’t too selective about who he did sessions with and wasn’t shy about inviting people home too. Upon further digging, it turned out that Ted and Jacob were actually friends, and Jacob had convinced Ted to come and check out the scene. Apparently Ted wasn’t even into this whole thing, as far as Jacob was aware, but he’d been curious about it. Curious enough that he’d arrived when Jacob was still sessioning with someone, and so he’d gotten himself a drink when Morgan had caught sight of him. He’d decided he’d seen enough by the time Jacob was done, and so they’d left. And at some point during their walk to and from the subway, Stanley Larson had started following them.

Jacob’s body was found Tuesday morning. They caught Stanley by Thursday.

“So he had nothing to do with the club,” Prentiss said as she closed the case file. “Just happened to stumble upon them that very same night. What are the odds of that?”

“Well, statistically speaking-”

“That was a hypothetical question, Reid.”

Reid closed his mouth.

Morgan was kind of mad that the club just happened to be the last place Ted and Jacob were seen at and had absolutely nothing else to do with their deaths. Then he felt like a fucking asshole for thinking that when two people were dead.

He ran a hand over his head where he was sitting hunched over the file. He had no reason to keep looking at it, really, only he felt he hadn’t really been able to meet anyone’s eye that day.

Thank god it was Friday.

After he had spent approximately twenty minutes just staring at the file, he felt a figure looming over him. “Hi.”

“Pretty boy, hey.” He straightened. Reid was fiddling with the straps of his satchel, which was how Morgan realized it was time to head home. “You’re leaving?”

“You should too.”

“I will.” He closed the case file and stood. “Right now, actually.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“Could I catch a ride with you?”

“No subway today?”

Reid pulled a face. “I’m not really feeling it.”

“That’s fair. Yeah, of course I’ll drive you, come on.”

He knew what Reid was doing, but neither of them said a thing. Not during the elevator ride. Not during the walk to the garage. And certainly not during the drive to Reid’s apartment, which wasn’t too far away from Morgan’s anyway. They only spoke once he’d parked and Reid asked if he wanted to come inside.

They didn’t usually do this, though they had before. Teetering the line of something they never fully acknowledged. They had been doing that for years.

“Do you want something to drink?”

Morgan settled on his couch. “You got any sodas?”

Reid handed him a can. “Your favorite.”

“You stock up on these in case I come over?” He meant it as a joke, but the way Reid flushed was very interesting. “Wait, really?” He felt a grin tug at his lips. He’d spent the past few days in a constant state of shame, so it felt good to be the one to finally do the teasing again. “That’s sweet.”

Reid sat down beside him. “I’m just a considerate host.”

“Right, right.”

Reid crossed his legs where he sat. In another life Morgan would’ve paired his teasing up with a squeeze to his knee, but felt too self conscious about it now.

He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you didn’t invite me over because you wanted my company.”

“Well, not purely.”

“Go on, then.” He ran a finger over the edge of his can. “Ask.”

“I-” Reid cut himself off. “I’m- curious.”

“About?”

“About trying it out.”

“You- wait, what?”

Reid was blushing, which wasn’t surprising. What was however, was the fact that he wasn’t averting his eyes despite that. Seemed to be entirely serious when he said, “I’d like to see what it’s all about.”

“We’re talking about tickling, right? You are aware that that means you will have to be tickled, right? Unless you want to try it out on me, which, I mean, while it’s not usually my thing I guess I can make an exception-”

“I want you to tickle me.”

“Ah.” Whatthefuck. “But- why?”

Reid shrugged. “Like I said.”

*

Reid did his research, because that was what he always did. The very moment Morgan mentioned the “kink club” he was off, looking it up and looking up what it meant to have a tickle kink and trying to pinpoint where exactly Derek Morgan fit into all of this. He didn’t tell him. Of course he didn’t tell him. Morgan was embarrassed enough as it was by the case, and for him to do research ahead of time was probably crossing a line.

He didn’t know how he would’ve reacted had he not done it. Not that he judged, but initial reactions to surprising revelations couldn’t always be controlled, and the last thing he wanted was to scare Morgan off.

The part that surprised him came later, when they entered the club at night after their conversation in the car. Reid didn’t like clubs. They were always too loud and too crowded, and the flashing lights didn’t help. But something washed over him at Tea Quells. Some sort of sudden understanding which made it all click for him. Morgan in that club. He looked anxious, which Reid didn’t blame him for, but beneath that, seen only in glimpses, was a tranquility he rarely saw in his friend and coworker. He looked like he truly belonged there.

Of course Reid got curious.

*

“I’m curious.”

Morgan shifted in his seat. Reid’s gaze made him feel timid. The whole goddamn situation, the whole goddamn case and the whole goddamn week had made him feel timid, and he never knew what to do with it. But Reid’s sincerity almost touched him. It didn’t seem fake whatsoever.

“Elaborate.”

“Well.” Reid seemed to hesitate. “I have done some- research.”

“Of course you have.”

“So I know the very basics of it.”

“Surprised you don’t know all of it.”

“I can’t read my way into people’s deepest thoughts and desires.” He paused. “Or, well, it depends on how much research there’s been done. This is a quite unexplored topic, believe it or not.”

Morgan breathed out a laugh. “Oh, I believe it. So I guess this is your way of doing boots on the ground research.”

Reid smiled. “Something like that.”

*

Reid had done more research than Morgan probably suspected, but, he now realized, you really couldn’t read your way into an understanding of what it was like actually being in this situation. He approached it as an outsider, he understood that, but the skip of a heartbeat was real, and the giggly nervousness which gripped him was real, and the way Morgan moved closer, so carefully and slowly as to not scare him off, that was so fucking real that Reid didn’t really know what to do with it.

“Just-” Morgan paused, fingers in the air and all. “Please say the safe word if you don’t like it. Please.”

“I promise.”

“I mean it, pretty boy.”

“Yes, Morgan- heh.” Whatever that sound was, a giggle of some sort, came without his consent and he all but slapped a hand over his own mouth at the shock of it. But Morgan finally melting into a playful smile, which he was certain to be normally sporting during his tickly encounters, made him less self conscious about it.

“Already giggling, huh? So I’m assuming your neck’s a sweet spot?” He wiggled his fingers in the air again, which was what he’d been doing to get Reid to initially react. Far enough that he wasn’t touching him at all, but just at the right height that had Reid all nervous.

Reid put a hand over his throat. “I guess.”

“I can’t really tickle you if you’re covering the spot, you know.” He dropped his hand. “Unless you want me to start at a different spot?”

Reid thought about it. The neck was a vulnerable spot. Easy to catch unguarded, but difficult to stay at unless you had your opponent fully restrained in some way. Reid was sure to struggle if targeted there. He was sure to squirm and flail and scrunch. But letting Morgan go there first, even for only a moment, was an act of intimacy. Of trust. So of course he had to let Morgan go there first. Even for only a moment.

“No, it’s okay.” He uncovered the spot, though his hands remained hovering in the air. There was only so much he could do to stifle his natural instincts.

“If you’re sure?”

“If you stall any longer I might freak out from the anticipation.”

And Morgan laughed. Morgan laughed so suddenly and beautifully and Reid was so fully captivated by it that he let his guard down completely, which meant he was entirely unprepared for the tickle attack and wasn’t able to try to rein in any ounce of his reaction.

Apparently he was more ticklish than he remembered. And somehow, despite not having believed it at all, it wasn’t so bad being on the receiving end either. Not when he was the one technically in control. Not when Morgan tickled him purely because he asked him to.

*

Reid was so fucking ticklish that Morgan wondered if he was faking it to humor him. But no, Morgan was a connoisseur in the art of tickling, and while he had encountered many people who for some reason both held back and exaggerated their reactions to the best of their abilities, there was no way Reid could be doing that. No, the way he threw back his head was real. The way he grabbed for Morgan’s hands and panicked when he at first couldn’t only for the eventual grip of them to be weakened and useless was real. And his laugh. Oh, his laugh. Morgan had not heard anything more real in his life. Choppy and giddy and slightly high pitched, as if he wasn’t sure how to do it. Had probably not laughed like this in years. Morgan had certainly never heard him laugh like this before.

“Okay, okay, I’ll have mercy on you,” he said, because he was afraid that this would be too much and Reid would want to stop, and Morgan wasn’t ready for it to be over. He switched from his neck to his ribs, poking and prodding and finding it less effective than a simple swipe of the finger over his neck, and so he changed tactics. Grabbing one of Reid’s wrists, because both would be overkill, he held it just tightly enough to grant himself ten uninterrupted seconds of gentle curls of his fingers at the spot where his ribcage met his side. Let’s just say it worked much better.

“See, I like this,” he said, trying to be heard over Reid’s laughter. “because you trust me enough to do this. And because you’re having fun enough that you’re not asking me to stop. It’s different for someone who enjoys being on the receiving end. They want me to be doing this.”

Reid managed to grab his wrist when he switched to clawing at his belly. “But why are you enjoying this?”

Morgan freed his hand and gave his knee a squeeze. “Because I’m the one who makes this fun for you.”

*

Reid understood it now. Understood that you could never fully understand unless you were in the person’s shoes, but he understood enough now, as he tried to keep himself from fighting Morgan off too much. Understood because it tickled like crazy and yet he didn’t want it to stop, not yet.

“You do know I didn’t just do this for research, right?” Reid said quietly once it was over, once Morgan had found that spot on his thigh which had him finally cave and ask for mercy.

“I know, Reid.”

He nodded. “Good. Just checking.”

They didn’t say more about it. They both knew why he’d done it. They both knew why Morgan had accepted. Later. They would talk about it later, when they both felt brave again.

[a-simple-lee]

You're still under my skin

Project hail mary (tickle fic: Ler!Ryland Grace, Lee!Reader)

🌌 summary: Affection is really important to you. Over time, you've learned to initiate hugs, and pats on the shoulder. You never thought you'd be able to ask Ryland to tickle you - but desperate times call for desperate measures. 🪐 tags: ryland grace & reader, tickling, fluff, 2.4k words 💫 prompt: "i have this thought but i’m too scared to consider it further on my own - imagine actually working up the courage to go up to ryland and ask him to tickle you. he’d be insufferable and would never let you live it down" -@/Kitkatfingers 🛰️ author's note: Heyyy I have no idea whether this is shit or not but it took me 1.5 weeks and a lot of sitting with my head on the desk so I hope yall enjoy <33 🌌credits: (thank you to @//harringtonsslvt for the post layout inspo! Space dividers by @//strangergraphics)

It was back again.

The wanting.

You had been keeping it controlled so far - after all, there were more important matters at hand. But things had been slow lately on the hail mary, and Ryland had not been helping.

You'd been close, in the way two people condemned to spend the rest of their lives in a metal box would be. You hugged. You bumped shoulders. You slept side by side. And you had stupid playfights.

Your thoughts float back to your most recent scuffle; how Grace had grabbed you by the shoulders, messed up your hair - how you'd tossed half-hearted punches at his shoulder, and he'd acted all offended. How he'd adjusted his grip where you'd slid down. How his hand had accidentally landed under your arm, and it had...well, tickled. You'd yelped, flailed, practically jumping out of Grace's headlock. The reaction had only prompted him to scramble after you, and the wrestling match, as it occasionally did, devolved into a tickle fight.

There seemed to be a mutual understanding that neither of you minded these too much, given how often they happened - humans needed touch, and...it was nice to make each other smile. Even it was incredibly silly.

If Grace had a problem with it, he'd never said - and besides, he never pushed your hands away, despite being more than capable.

...He probably had an inkling you had no issues with it either.

There was a look you shared, sometimes, whenever you successfully provoked him into tickling you - although you didn't always need to provoke him. Sometimes, you'd just look at him pleadingly, and he'd know. And after, you'd wipe tears of laughter from your eyes, and he'd adjust his glasses, and it would be there on his face. A knowing.

It was why you felt comfortable asking without asking, when the wanting arrived - you’d hide Ryland’s things, act extra snarky, squeeze his knee under the table - and if he didn’t tickle you, he still usually gave you some similar form of playful affection. It nearly always worked. 

Nearly.

This time, though, was different. Despite your best efforts to drop hints all week, it appeared Grace was too engrossed in his work to pick up on any. You’d prodded his ribs, thrown in plenty of sarcastic jibes - and, though you were loathe to admit it, deliberately stretched for high shelves a few times within tickling distance. All that, and Dr. PhD still hadn’t gotten the message.

So…no, he wasn’t helping at all. 

You'd looked into the science of it, once. Hugs released plenty of endorphins. It stood to reason touch-starved individuals might feel drawn to affection that caused laughter, which would release an extra kick of dopamine. It wasn't unfathomable that some people enjoyed being tickled.

So you knew you wanted it. And you could take a reasonable guess at why.

Didn’t make it any less humiliating to think about, though.

And now, after hours trying and failing to shut it out, there's a stubborn, giddy flutter settled between your heart and stomach. Your brain runs circles around the recent lack of touch, helpfully providing you with visions of hugs, playfights, cuddles, tickles, tickles, tickles-

This is bad.

You tap your pen furiously against your notepad, berating yourself for getting distracted again. A simple dilution calculation sits unfinished, abandoned in favour of your oddly specific yearnings.

C₁V₁ = C₂V₂.

The formula stares at you. It's simple: just plug in the values, make the needed solution. You’ve done it a million times by now.

Across the room, Ryland drums his fingers on the bench, his glasses habitually crooked as he contemplates his own data. It's only in your peripheral, but it's enough to scatter any possibility of concentrating. Your eyes linger a nanosecond too long on his hand, and you absolutely, totally do not contemplate his fingers tapping one-by-one like that against your ribs, so it's fine. You're fine.

Fuck.

Perhaps something more visual will help. You nudge the chair back, and grab a sample for the confocal microscope.

It's a more complex setup than the little desktop ones. Takes an eternity to switch the thing on - a million buttons, and loading screens, and safety checks.

You pass the time gazing intently at the desk.

Finally, it's ready. Taking a seat, you slot the sample in, and your hand drifts to the coarse focus dial, the sample shifting up and down with each movement. You will your eyes to stay locked on the viewport.

Your elbows bump against the desk as you hunch over the eyepiece. It's not comfortable, but you're used to it at this point, and it leaves your torso rather open to - nope. stop it.

Too late. The thought of hands, squeezing suddenly at your sides, flashes through your mind. Kneading. Poking. Teasing. A person, no one in particular, crowding closer to trap you against the bench, laughing low near your ear, his glasses bumping your neck-

God.

The fine focus does not make things any clearer.

"I can hear you thinking." A voice nearby. You nearly fall out your chair. Grace is stood over his laptop, hands propped against the table, glasses slid down his nose. Just…watching, apparently.

You steady your breathing. “Uh- what?”

“You’re distracted.” He steps closer.

“No, I’m not.”

“So…you meant to do that?” He points to the sample, which you have elegantly smushed against the microscope lens during your adjustments. Great. You rest your brow against the eyepiece in defeat.

“How many cover slips are we gonna lose to you, hm?” Ryland mutters, guiding you off the chair with a hand on your shoulder. 

You nudge him. “Shut up.”

He nudges you back. “Hey, I’m looking out for our equipment, here.”

You reach over, adjusting his glasses for him. “You’re dragging me away from my work.”

He grins. “Work? What work?”

“Rude.” It’s too easy, really, to swipe your fingers over his neck – your hands are already there, and your brain has been screaming affection affection affection for hours now. 

Grace, of course, leaps back with a squeak, half a giggle escaping before he regains his composure, hand held to his neck.

Mischief flashes through his features, for a moment. But he doesn’t take the bait. 

“Alright, alright, sorry.” He folds his arms. “What’s going on?”

You huff. “Nothing, just…”

“Bored? Tired?” Ryland supplies. Your gaze drifts inexorably to his hands, which trace idle patterns over his own arms. 

You are not going to get any work done like this.

“Kinda.”

You stride over, placing your hands on his shoulders, expression dour.

He tilts his head, frowning slightly.

“What, you need a hug?” His arms open wide, and you take the offer, even if it’s not quite what you’re after. It helps.

You spend a moment gathering your thoughts, Ryland giving you a brief but tight squeeze. It gives you the confidence to draw back and face him again.

“All good now?”

Heat crawls up your neck. For the fifth time in as many days, you give him The Look - the one that usually says everything you need it to. 

He raises his eyebrows, uncertain.

“Okay, so…not all good, then?”

“Grace.” Your voice nearly cracks. Delirious, you wonder if he’s doing it on purpose - but…no, there’s not a glint of malice in his eyes.

“What, what do you need?” He’s completely oblivious.

 “I want-” The rest of the words won’t come out. You give him one last pleading stare, hoping he’ll know the look in your eyes this time.

“What, what is it?”

Shit. You’re going to have to spell it out for him. 

“Um- it’s been a while since- uh.” The next few seconds are filled with your various stutters. Grace sits through it all patiently.

Okay, deep breath. You place your hands together, and brute-force the words out.

“I, um. I want you to tickle me.”

Silence. 

He leans back against the counter, eyes narrowing in the way they do when he finds something interesting.

And then, slowly…he smiles.

“...So you can ask for it.” His voice carries that familiar teasing lilt.

“You-You knew?”

“You are not subtle.” Grace doesn’t give you time to process the betrayal - just lunges forwards, scooping you into a hug from behind like it's nothing. His hands latch onto your hips, squeezing rapidly, and he laughs at the way you instantly start sinking downwards. 

“That was so hard for you, wasn’t it?” He muses, spidering his fingers over your stomach, following you towards the floor. “You were thinking about it for days!” 

That fluttering, hopeful thing from earlier does somersaults inside your chest, revelling at the familiar electricity running through your veins. The giddiness and joy at being held this way, despite Grace’s teasing, puts a silly grin on your face. You put your head in your hands, legs flailing wildly as you reach the ground. But Ryland’s not having it - he grabs your wrists, and slots out from behind you, choosing instead to sit over your legs. He pins your hands over your head, leaning closer.

You refuse to meet his gaze - and in your defence, it would be hard to - Grace’s free hand walks two fingers along the inside of your bicep, moving steadily towards your underarm. It’s rather distracting.

“Grahace-”

You risk a glance at him.

Bad idea. That grin is evil.

“You really missed this, didn’t you?” His hand swirls a tiny circle over your tricep, and your giggling stops being anticipatory. You frantically shake your head. 

“Yea, you did.” He laughs, a sing-song tone to his voice. His fingers creep lower, slowly tracing around your navel. Your breath hitches in your chest, delicate laughter stuttering out.

“You missed being tickled.”

The heat rising to your cheeks is mortifying - you let out a noise somewhere between a giggle and a whine. 

“Aw. Sorry, am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes-!” His hand abruptly claws at your side, and you tip your head back, lost in laughter. “No! Nonono-”

“Yes? No? Which is it?” Grace laughs. It’s a wicked noise. Horrible, even. You vow to yourself that you’ll tickle that laugh out of him once you’re free.

“FUCK you-” 

“Tsk. That’s rude.” He stills his fingers, leaning in to look you in the eye. “I won’t tickle you then.”

…If the ship’s hull somehow breached, right now, and you fell through the laboratory floor into the frigid vacuum of space, you would spend your last moments grateful for the feeling of the cold against your raging blush. 

Grace is attentively watching your reaction - which consists mostly of hiding your face against your pinned arms, and giggling through residual laughter. There may have been a very embarrassing flustered groan, but you don’t dwell on it.

“...Well?” He hovers a clawed hand over your tummy. “You owe me an apology.”

“Sorry, sorry-” You manage to squeak out, eyes closed tight once you see what he’s doing.

“...And?”

“And what?”

“And, what would you like me to do?” Grace looks at you expectantly. 

Oh no.

He’s waiting for you to ask him again.

“Absolutely not.” You open your eyes. His hand is closer. 

“...I just think it would help to practice asking, is all.”

“Ryland.”

“Ryland, now, huh? Must be bad.” He wriggles his fingers in the air, just a bit. Just an inch away. You can’t help it - you laugh a little.

“Plehease!”

He considers this - observes the shade of red your ears have turned - and snorts.

“...Alright, fine, be dramatic.” 

His hand makes contact with your torso, sliding your shirt out the way as he spiders a pattern across your skin. Then, hand still poking along your side, he leans down, and blows a raspberry.

You forget most of the English language for a moment, back arching in a useless attempt to throw him off, your focus completely consumed by the playful, buzzy feeling under your skin. At one point, you make either a snort or a hiccup, you’re not sure, and Ryland laughs against your belly, which tickles even more. Once he runs out of air, he pulls back, and pays attention to your ribs, his fingers climbing up each one with horrible, ticklish accuracy.

“...Two…” he mutters. You furrow your eyebrows between giggles, confused by the lack of context.

“GRACE-!” You manage to shout, unable to form a sentence through the combination of laughter and utter mortification. Pulling at your arms does nothing.

“Shush, now, you’ll make me lose count.”

His hand shifts to the next rib, one finger positioned above and the other below as he digs lightly into the space between the bones, and keeps counting.

“Three-”

Ok, now you actively wish there was a hull breach. 

“Four-” He continues, picking up his pace slightly to observe how your legs kick out more in response. “Only twenty ribs to go, you’re doing great.”

“Screhew you-!” You’re careful to leave the profanities out this time.

Grace smiles. “On second thought, this is going too slow. Fivesixseven-” 

His hand crawls rapidly upwards, slightly trailing towards your spine as it does so. At long last, he lets your hands go, so he can have both of his back. The freedom doesn’t do you much good - you feel like a puddle. Your limbs can barely move from the laughter. You hold onto Grace’s wrists loosely - but don’t push them away.

“You gonna let me go?” By now, he’s got both hands jammed under your arms, barely moving. He doesn’t need to move them, really - you keep squirming and laughing yourself into an infinite feedback loop with them stuck there like that.

“Plehease-” You can’t think through the giggles.

“I’m not doing anything! I’m not moving!” Grace is laughing along with you at this point, apparently highly entertained by your predicament. “Oho, you’re adorable.”

By some miracle, you finally manage to lift your arms enough for him to draw back. He doesn’t touch you again - just sits back, watching as you flop your arms over your face and ride out the tsunami of residual giggles he’s caused. 

After ten seconds of this, he leans forwards again, poking at your wrist. 

“You ok under there? Did I break you?”

If you hadn’t just been tickled to pieces, you probably wouldn’t have grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into a hug. But you have, so that’s what you do.

“Hey,” He laughs, stroking your hair. “Happy now?”

And despite the mischief in his tone - despite the stomach-flipping embarrassment you feel - despite the fact he’d known what you wanted the whole time - you nod. 

Ryland grins wider. “Good.”

Then, he leans over to catch your eye, his voice a tad smug. 

“...Next time, all you need to do is ask.”

[could-be-crofters]

Tell Me Logan

A/N: This story comes from the prompt list concept I had created. I decided to make them their own individual fics. With that being said, enjoy 🩵💙

Sidenote: I do not know exactly when I would've written these since it was only very recent that I added dates to my works. The closest date I can think of is between 2021-2022.

Character(s): Logan Sanders, Patton Sanders

Concept(s): Logan is ticklish, Patton tickles Logan

Pairing(s): (Platonic/Romantic) Logicality

Prompt(s): "Say It"

Synopsis: Patton wants Logan to admit that he is ticklish

Trigger(s): N/A (Let me know if there are any more)

Word Count: 243 words

~~~

“Nohohohohoho! Patton!” “Ehehe… What’s the matter, Logan? All I asked was for you to say it.”

Logan was blushing all the way down to the nape of his neck. What was making him so giggly all of a sudden? He wasn’t in any sort of mood to his knowledge. Nor did he have any part of him that wanted to admit that he was sensitive. The cooing and baby talk would never seize if he did. No matter what taunting, teasing or nostalgic things Patton told him, he would do it. Logan wasn’t going to say or admit to anything.

“Say it! Say it!” “Ihihihihi’m not thihihic–”

The moral aspect hit a sweet spot on the back of Logan’s hips near his back ribs. The logical figment curled up even more.

“That’s not the correct answer, Logan! You’re supposed to say ‘I am ticklish.’”

Logan curled up even more, trying to fight off the moral trait’s fingers on his hipbones, his chuckling got louder as the moral facet’s motions kept Logan on his toes. He shook his head roughly as Patton made his way down to the logical aspect’s calves.

“Are you sure you don’t want to say it~?” “Pahahahattohohohon! PlehehehehEHEHEhease!” “Awh! What’s the matter? The little pokey-pokes are going to make you choke, Lo?”

Logan squirmed even more but never faltered on his goal to neither use his chosen safeword or tell Patton the truth. The game had started. It was on.

[hyacinthanon]

Stick Together

a/n: I should have been asleep 2 hours ago but here we are I guess! Y'all know the drill, if you see me fic posting at 1 am est no you don't! Follow up to "Anatomy of a Crimelord"

summary: If Tim and Damian had proved that little brothers need to stick together, Dick and Jason can show them that older brothers also need to team up every now and then, just to keep things even.

lee!Tim, lee!Damian, brief lee!Jason // ler!Dick, ler!Jason

━━━━━━━━━━

As war councils went, it wasn’t much. Dick had just yanked Jason into his room and shut the door behind them, locking it in as Jason sputtered something at him in protest. Now, they sat facing each other on Dick’s bed with a family-sized tub of sour gummy worms – all the better for plotting. 

“So,” Jason said, the word mangled by his mouthful of candy. “When’re we getting them?” He flicked his eyebrows up mischievously, an expression that often sent Tim into flustered titters all on its own, but that made Dick want to coo and ruffle Jason’s hair. It was just so him, so entirely Jason in a way that no amount of assassin training or Lazarus Pit could ever erase. Back when Jason was Robin, it was a look that had always promised imminent trouble, usually for Dick. 

“Well,” Dick said after a couple seconds of heroically restraining himself from reaching out to mess up his brother’s curls. “We’re overdue for movie night. I say we bookend them on the couch, then.”

Jason squinted like he could tell that Dick had been about to subject him to older brother affection and shifted to sit crosslegged, fully facing him. “Hey, I saw that look, Dickface. Don’t lose track of the goal, this is about the ankle biters, not your mushy sappy shit–”

Well okay then, if Jason was going to insist – 

The tub of gummy worms toppled onto the floor as Dick lunged forwards, knocking Jason back against the pillows. It was telling that Jason went willingly. 

“We are going after Tim and Dami,” Dick said once he’d secured a perch on Jason’s thighs. He went for a soothing tone and reached out to smooth a few errant curls off of Jason’s forehead. Then, he grinned brightly down at his little brother in the way that always made Jason hiss and sputter like a waterlogged alley cat. “But I think someone needs reminding that he’s also a little brother, hm? Whaddya think, Jay?” 

Jason’s eyes widened. God, he was such a theater kid. As if there was going to be literally any other outcome from choosing to tease Dick like that. “Dickhead.” 

“Aww, that’s not very nice of you.” Dick pouted but he couldn’t hold in his laughter for very long, and broke down snickering when Jason gave him a flat, exasperated look.  “Are you wanting your own little brother tickles?” 

He punctuated his question by poking his index fingers into Jason’s sides and stomach, earning some light laughter as Jason jolted around underneath him, tossing back and forth. 

“Fuck off!” Jason hissed. Red-faced, he made a clumsy swipe at Dick’s hands, but missed. 

Dick just grinned down at him. “That wasn’t a no.” 

As Jason started to reply, Dick started clawing into his lower ribs, so any words were lost in the burst of louder cackles that had Jason trying fruitlessly again to push his fingers away.  

“Aww, Little Wing. I think all that muscle’s made you more ticklish.” 

Jason made a strangled noise, trying to hold back his laughter. After digging into his ribs for a few more seconds, Dick switched to nibbling little pinches all up and down his sides. 

“Di–Dic–” Jason gulped, his whole face scrunching up against the little yelping laughs that kept escaping his lips, “Dihihickie!”

“Yeah, JayJay?” Dick replied, sing-songing the words just to annoy him. Teasing Jason was half the fun, after all. “What’s up?”

Apparently giving up on finishing his thought, Jason just shook his head and surrendered to his laughter. He tried to bat Dick’s wrist away one last time, more of a token protest than anything else. 

“Think of it as a rehearsal for this evening,” Dick said. He’d decided to make a slow, inexorable path down towards Jason’s hips. “Gotta warm up for the others, y’know?”

Jason’s thrashing around increased amidst his laughing until he shrieked when Dick dug each thumb into the hollows of his hip bones. He bucked, trying to throw Dick off, and Dick let himself fall backwards onto the blankets.

“You’re such a shit,” Jason gasped as he pushed himself up on his elbows to glare at Dick. “Traitor.” 

Now on his back, Dick lolled his head to the side to give Jason a bright, innocent smile. “If you don’t want tickles, don’t be a cute little brother.”

Jason started sputtering something incoherent as he went red all the way up to his ears. While the Grr Emotions part of Jason’s brain shorted out, Dick straightened out his posture and closed his eyes, still smiling. The evening was going to be fun. Tim and Damian had no idea what awaited them. 

━━━━━━━━━━

Tim’s whole body ached when he pillowed his arms on the back of the couch to lean forward and look over Damian’s shoulder. Stupid Killer Croc launching him into that stupid brick wall. The bruises would be there for days – he’d need to find a good reason for them, or get excused from the upcoming swim unit in gym class. 

“Whatcha drawing, Dames?” Tim pushed himself a little further forward so he could obnoxiously rest his chin on Damian’s shoulder.

“Do you not have adequate vision?” Damian muttered, but he didn’t try to jostle Tim off of him. 

“Is that the gargoyle on top of Gotham City Credit Union?”

“Tt.”

Now that Tim was actually focused on the work in progress, he could recognize the distinct horned mane of that particular gargoyle. The protrusions made excellent handholds for climbing up for a better vantage point. Or so Tim was told, anyways. It wasn’t like he’d hauled himself up there in civilian clothes to test out his new wide lens last week. That would have been unnecessarily dangerous. 

He was about to tell Damian that his method of shading the different tones of granite looked cool when Jason and Dick came in, embroiled in an animated conversation about…something dumb, probably. 

“I like the shading,” he said to Damian, ignoring their older brothers. 

Damian shot him a quick sideways glance. “...thank you.”

Just then, Dick flopped down on Damian’s left side and Jason on his right. That was weird. Jason’s undisputed spot was the armchair on the right side of the TV that had a matching ottoman. A thought niggled at the back of Tim’s mind but he couldn’t quite pin it down, which wasn’t very poggers. They were up to something.

“Hey, guys,” Dick said with one of his friendly smiles. The sight of it set Tim’s hackles raising even further. “What do you think we should watch?”

“Not another Fast and Furious,” Tim said immediately, staring at Jason. “I don’t care about your dead kid privilege.”

Instead of smacking him upside the head, Jason threw back his head and laughed. He was always proud when Tim came up with some halfway decent trash talk, and Tim had to fight not to let the pleased smile show through. “Good one, birdie.”

“Well, Jay,” said Dick. He sounded casual….too casual. “We did have plans for our next movie night, right?”

Damian went entirely, utterly still, pencil freezing on the sheet of paper. Even though Tim hadn’t figured out what they were referencing yet, his heart kicked up a couple notches in anticipation. 

“We did,” Jason replied, giving Tim an absolutely diabolical smirk. “I’m surprised you guys agreed to this.” 

Oh, shit. 

The moment Tim’s brain finally connected the dots, Damian swore in Arabic and threw his sketchpad at Jason – who caught it, carefully closed the cover, and set it aside – before planting his feet on the carpet and launching himself upwards. That all happened in less than two seconds, but Jason was fast enough to reach down and squeeze one of Damian’s kneecaps. 

Damian squawked as his entire leg buckled and he collapsed back onto the couch, trying to kick out of Jason’s grip. 

Skittering back a few steps on sheer instinct, Tim glanced longingly at the doorway. If he bolted now he’d probably be safe for a while – he could even text Bart or Kon to come rescue him.

But as Damian’s reluctant, high-pitched laughter filled the air, Tim knew he couldn’t just leave his little brother to his fate. 

He sighed, then dove forward and hooked his arms under Damian’s. He yanked, hard, and leaned backwards, trying to drag Damian off the couch. 

“C’mon, Dami, kick him!” 

“I’m–trying–” Damian gritted out, his mouth wobbling against a childish grin as Jason kept squeezing at his knee. “Todd, let go.” 

“No can do, Dami,” Jason replied with a wicked grin. 

Dick, who up until then had been watching the proceedings with a look somewhere between fond and amused, reached out and grabbed Tim’s sleeve. He tugged with just the right combination of sharpness and angle to throw Tim off balance so he lost his grip on Damian and went stumbling forwards. One more tug, and he tumbled across the back of the couch, sprawled right in Dick’s lap. 

“Hey, Baby Bird,” Dick said. He reached out again and Tim braced, but instead of tickling him, Dick seized Damian’s other kneecap. 

Damian’s grudging sniggers quickly pitched up into actual laughter as he tried to shrink in between the couch cushions, haplessly trying to escape. “Richard!” 

As much as Damian could be a raging terror of a demon child, Tim had to admit that his laugh was cute, especially when he snorted. 

But in the spirit of little brothers needing to stick together, he grabbed Dick’s arm and tried to yank it away. “Get off him!” 

Dick gave him a mischievous look. “Oh, sorry, Timmy, you feeling left out?” 

Before Tim could even begin to formulate a response to that, Dick’s free hand was digging into Tim’s stomach in short, quick pulses that practically buzzed. 

“No-ooo!” Tim squeaked, right before the wildly ticklish feelings hit and he became a useless puddle of giggles. 

“Ye-ees,” Dick teased back. “You have an awfully ticklish tummy to just be lying around here, bud.” 

Tim wanted to say something but all his brain could come up with was Aaaaaaaaaaaahh –!! Dick was the worst when it came to teasing, and sure, Jason was a close second, but something about Dick’s preferred teases always got Tim in his most ‘ohI’mgoingtocrawlundermybedandhide” places, which also made him feel about ten times more ticklish whenever it happened. It was probably some kind of evil older brother magic, which – hey, maybe Tim would age into it eventually –

All those thoughts vanished when Dick’s fingers pitter-pattered across his navel and narrowed in on the patch of skin right next to it. Tim tried to twist and roll over, but something was pinning his legs down – Jason, he realized – and he couldn’t. 

“Dihihick!” he wheezed through high-pitched, bubbly giggles that made him clap his hands over his face. “Not–notthat, it ti–hihickles!”  It was like feeling his brain cells die off in real time, he couldn’t control his hands and all his brain was saying was different variations on tickles it tickles so much it tickles. 

“I know it does,” Dick cooed, and if Tim wasn’t already hiding in his hands that would’ve pushed him over the edge.  

Meanwhile, Damian snorted through his laughter, then squawked. “I wihihill st-ack!-stab you! Do not – Todd!” Then he, too, succumbed to squeaky laughter that probably meant that Jason had jammed his fingers under Damian’s toes. 

Then, suddenly, Damian shrieked, and the sound was immediately followed by hysterical cackles. 

Tim parted his fingers enough to see what Dick was doing. His oldest brother was using his free hand, the one that wasn’t making Tim lose his mind, to wiggle and prod up and down one of Damian’s sides, from his hip all the way up to his armpit. That was when Tim realized that he’d somehow squirmed around to pin one of Damian’s arms under his back, which was part of why Dames was stuck like that. Whoopsies. 

Damian was flushed with laughter and his hair had gotten all mussed up from his wriggling escape attempts. But he was smiling a big, childish, ticklish grin even though it made his eyes scrunch closed. He’d slid halfway onto his back, Jason held one of his legs by the ankle and the other one twitched with sympathetic ticklish shudders. 

It was, unfortunately for him, really freakin’ sweet. 

Fortunately for Damian, Tim didn’t have his camera. Tim barely had his thoughts. 

“Alright, Wing,” Jason said suddenly. “Switch?” 

The world shifted as something grabbed Tim by the shins and dragged him forwards, then flung his legs to the side. Jason’s arms slid around his chest in a viselike grip and Tim couldn’t stop himself from squirming because he knew what was coming. 

“Hey there, Timmers,” Jason growled, low and playful right next to Tim’s ear. “I know that whole ambush shit was your idea, so it’s time we had a talk.” 

Sharply twisting to the side, Jason flipped them and let go of Tim at the same time to flip him onto his back, so Jason was on one knee on the carpet and Tim was on his back on the couch. 

“NO–Nonono,” Tim babbled, swallowing against the laughter already trying to claw its way out. “You can’t.” 

Jason just smirked at him. “Alright, birdie, here’s how it’s gonna go: we’re gonna count your ribs, together, and each time you mess up, you get a raspberry.” 

Tim squeaked. 

The mischievous facade cracked for just a second as something soft and mushy flickered across Jason’s face, but it quickly vanished. 

“Really, Jay, that’s beyond fair,” Dick called. Whatever he was doing was making Damian curse and giggle at the same time. 

“Shut u–HUP!” Tim began, but his voice rose to a shrieking laugh when Jason used a single index finger to trace a scribbling patch over the lowest rib on his right side. Even that tickled like hell, made Tim jerk and jolt like he was being electrocuted. “That’s ohohone!” 

Jason grinned. “Great job, kid, you’ll get through this in no time.” 

Then, that niggling finger jumped up to the next rib, except instead of scritching over the bone Jason prodded into the soft spots on either side. 

Tim laughed so hard he snorted. “It’s–it’s two!”  

The next time, Jason used all five fingers of that hand to dig into Tim’s rib, and Tim flailed his arms out as he cackled. “T-three!” 

“See, you can count,” Jason teased. But instead of continuing up, he jumped back down. “So what’s this?” 

“One!” 

“....and here?” 

“Two, JaseJaseJahay-se!” 

“Ok, then this one should be easy –” Blunted fingernails danced over a new rib and Tim threw his head back into Damian’s knee. 

“Three! Wait – wait no, four!” 

But Jason was already scrunching up his t-shirt. “Nope, good try, though.” 

Tim wasn’t expecting a raspberry on one of the stupidly ticklish spots next to his bellybutton, so when that’s what Jason did, he screeched at the top of his lungs and promptly collapsed into desperate giggles. 

“You–you trihihicked mehehee!” 

“Hey,” Jason grinned down at him, unmistakably fond. “I never said I’d be fair. ‘S’not my fault you’re just a squeaky little giggle brat underneath all that planning and data.” 

And he did it again – the trick and the raspberry. 

Groaning through the residual giggles, Tim just flung one of his arms over his eyes. Someone patted the top of his head rather clumsily, and he adjusted the angle of his arm enough to squint upwards, expecting to see Jason’s arm. Instead, it was Damian, who’d finally been released from Dick’s clutches. 

“Hey, Dami,” Tim said, cutting himself off as another wave of tittering crashed over him. Every time he thought he was finally cooling down, a fresh wave of laughter set him off. It was probably the leftover adrenaline and giant rush of giddiness. “You survived.” 

“Tt. You look…adequate, I suppose.” Despite his words, Damian was grinning a real, soft smile. 

Tim managed to make one of his arms obey him and linked it through Damian’s elbow so he could rest his head on top of Damian’s. “You gotta get taller, Dami. Then we c’n get ‘em.”

Somewhere close by, Dick cooed. Someone’s phone camera flashed, but Tim was too tickled-out to care. 

Still on the floor in front of him, Jason reached out and smoothed Tim’s shirt back down. Even the firm touch made Tim giggle, he just couldn’t help it. 

Dick smoothed Damian’s hair back down where it was sticking up and, for good measure, fluttered his fingers around Damian’s chin and ears to get a few more high-pitched giggles. Then he did the same for Tim, scritching exactly two fingers under his jaw just to make Tim squeak again. 

Jason reappeared – when had he left? – with a throw blanket and tossed it over both of them. Then he picked up the TV remote off the coffee table, but instead of going to his normal armchair, he sat on the carpet with his back against the couch. 

“Y’r so mean,” Tim mumbled. His eyelids felt like lead. He didn’t mean it, and trusted his brothers to know that, but he couldn’t exactly say “hey thanks for tickling all the thoughts out of my brain, it was getting overwhelming in there.” 

“Hey, big brothers have to stick together too,” Dick said, like he was reciting a legal precept. “Them’s the rules, Timmy.” 

Well, if that was true, then they should all gang up on Damian one of these days. 

Damian’s eyelids had fluttered closed at some point, and he subconsciously nestled his head deeper into the crook between Tim’s neck and shoulder. Awww. 

Instead of responding to Dick, Tim just hummed quietly and let his own eyes close. As far as revenge went, that hadn’t been too bad. 

[a-laughing-matter]

Man I don’t wanna comment this publicly cuz I’m not usually in that community but please please please please PLEASE do the wired in thing from Alastor’s perspective. I am SO interested. I need that in my life PLEASEE

Wired In (Hazbin Hotel)

Alastor's POV

(Click here for Vox's POV)

Lee!Alastor, Ler!Vox

~12.2k

Summary: (S2 E4) Alastor finds himself subject to Vox's will. But despite Vox's unfortunately effective strategy to break him down, he is not helpless or at his mercy. Even stripped of his power and dignity, he's more than capable of holding his ground.

Tw: Super, super intense tickling. Noncon. Bondage. Gag usage. Canon typical swearing (So, a lot.) Suggestive material. Implied threats of sexual assault. Explicit violent fantasies (not acted upon). Mentions of blood and gore (hypothetical). Forced undressing (upper body only). Mentions of major (canon) injuries (Alastor's wound). Infliction of minor injuries. Crying. Unrequited feelings. Mood swings. Absolute freak behavior. Problematic characters thinking problematic things that go unchallenged by the narrative.

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Right, so this took about a million years to write. This has been in my ask box since January 2nd, and I've been working on it for even longer. Sorry about that. It would have taken even longer without the support and encouragement and lovely editing of my sparkly new ultra-talented beta reader, @featherstreams. Love her a lot. This was so fun to do and I'm so excited for people to finally read it! This fic is intended to be perfect partner to Vox's perspective, so you should be able to read it before, after, or side by side with this one. I wanted to make it fully complete as a stand alone but not entirely repetitive when you read them together, so I hope that was achieved. I will be yapping extensively in the end notes, but unfortunately even that is cut down because as much as I want to comment on every single line of this fic and explain my choices, there's just far too much to say.

Read below the cut!

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“Ohoh my god!” Vox exclaimed, pacing around Alastor. “You’re mine. I still can’t believe it, Al. Just. Wow.”

He was far too excited, in Alastor’s honest opinion. It was nice to revel in a great victory, but this wasn’t even close to that. It was a marvel how Vox could be this satisfied when Alastor gave him the win willingly.

All this gloating, and he wasn’t even taking full advantage of the situation, anyway. It was hardly creative to tie him up and gag him. There just wasn’t an ounce of showmanship. Alastor was prepared for much more than public humiliation and a round of meaningless monologuing. It was honestly disappointing; he’d looked forward to some fun, classic torture.

Vox laughed, though Alastor didn’t know what was funny. 

“Ohhh, Alastor, Alastor, Alastor, Alastor.” And there it was. Vox’s complete inability to keep his emotions off his sleeve. They literally leaked into his words and bent his audio in the most unseemly way.

Vox’s abhorrently large hands wrapped around Alastor’s shoulders and suddenly he was entirely too close to Vox’s bright screen. It was a familiar motion, and one he had to count on soon, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.

“What should I do with you?” Vox asked, and he genuinely sounded like a child drooling over a new toy. Immature, lonely, and pathetic.

“I could have you any way I wanted.” 

What? 

There was something truly wicked in Vox’s eyes. The wires around his arms suddenly felt much more restrictive. He felt his heart beat quicken and he knew his shadow was sporting an unacceptable frown without even having to look. He sent it a quick command to keep itself in check and put everything he had into not letting his nervousness show on his own face.

That certainly would be torture. Cheap and unsportsmanlike, but real, true torture. Alastor should have known Vox would be that type. 

His breath caught in his throat when Vox’s finger slipped underneath the gag and pressed into his cheek.

“What was that?” Vox purred, dripping with venom. Alastor obviously wasn’t trying to say anything—he knew it would be pointless at best and an embarrassing garble at worst. But Vox seemed to revel at the silence that hung between them.

Alastor steeled himself for whatever would come next. He knew, in his situation, he couldn’t fight it. All he could do was make sure Vox never saw how much it would get to him.

Then, nearly all at once, the fire in Vox’s eyes fizzled out into sparks. He still looked predatory, but it was much less depraved.

“No,” he whispered. “You’re not even worth that.”

Alastor would never admit to the relief that washed over him. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal for someone like himself.

Vox’s finger moved to run over Alastor’s jaw. At least this time it was over the thick fabric of the gag. Still, it felt like needles. It was sticky and uncomfortable. Alastor longed to rip every single one of Vox’s ugly, oversized claws off one by one.

He hated the way Vox’s digital eyes focused in on him, like he was prey. It was unfortunate that Vox’s head was so deformed Alastor didn’t even get the luxury of fantasizing about tearing out his eyeballs too.

The offending finger finally left Alastor’s face to tap on the edge of Vox’s screen. “Alright, Al,” he said. “I’ll get you to break, don’t worry.”

Alastor sincerely doubted that. To ‘break’ someone requires getting your hands dirty. It required getting elbow deep in someone’s organs, and hollowing them out from the inside. Was someone ever truly ‘broken’ until their heart was discarded on the floor, still beating and weeping blood into the hardwood? 

If Vox wanted to disembowel, disfigure, or otherwise maim Alastor, surely he would have done it already. Even Alastor would have ran out of patience by now, and he was a very, very patient man.

The laugh track that played practically summoned itself at the absolute joke of Vox’s intimidation. Alastor crossed his legs and waited for Vox to continue his pitiful display.

Sadly, Vox must have found some sense and he’d stopped talking. Instead his eyes wandered over Alastor’s body. They were distant, somehow, and it made him look possessed as he slowly shuffled closer and dropped to his knees.

It took a genuine effort on Alastor’s part to not pull away as Vox grabbed his shoulders again. It was a firmer touch than before. He pressed deep into Alastor’s trapezius muscles.

“Alastor,” Vox called as he began massaging in earnest.

Alastor forced himself to look Vox in the eyes despite the urge to roll his own at the tone of Vox’s voice. He was no idiot; he knew Vox would be looking for any flicker of weakness—anything he could latch on to and exploit. Alastor wouldn’t make it so easy for him.

He wanted to set his own shoulders on fire and watch the flesh burn off the bone. Maybe season and braise them in whatever it was that Vox passed off for blood like a beautiful venison chuck steak.

Alastor made sure not a single trace of his fantasy leaked onto his face. He kept his expression unchanging.

The horrible squeezing and prodding—seriously, what was Vox hoping to achieve with this, anyway?—began migrating lower, down Alastor’s arms. It was a mild irritation, and nothing more, until the touch lightened and reached his elbows.

They twitched away before Alastor even registered the ripple of ticklish sensation that aggressively hooked into the joint. It was an utter betrayal on his body’s end; if he had even a single second to process the feeling before his traitor elbows took it upon themselves to flinch, he surely could have schooled that reaction.

And the look on Vox’s nauseatingly flat face told him he really, really should have.

Oh dear lord.

Vox stared him down, grinning like he’d just struck gold, as he brushed over the tips of Alastor’s elbows. 

The touch was so soft Alastor could barely feel Vox’s finger itself but his elbows lit up with an agonizing buzz that had them jerking against the wires again.

Alastor was fuming. Not even at Vox, but at the completely useless vessel he had to reside in. It was getting harder and harder to control his face, but he absolutely did not want Vox to see any cracks in his mask.

“What, Alastor? Is this bothering you?”

Yes. It was. Far too much. And the fact that it was bothering him at all is what bothered him most.

Vox kept tickling him. Alastor would have much preferred Vox ripped his arms off and called it a day. As it was, though, each shift of Vox’s fingers sent him squirming in the most humiliating way, and Vox was clearly keeping thorough track of all of it. He was honestly trying his best to keep still, and one would think that being physically bound to the chair would make it easy for him. If only.

He felt laughter bubbling up in his chest, and tried to will it away, but still it slipped out. At least, he felt it. The smallest huff of a giggle. But he heard nothing.

The gag, he realized, must have silenced it. How curious! Alastor had yet to talk into it, so he hadn’t realized before, but it seemed to be completely impervious to noise. He hummed softly, experimentally, and he knew it would have been shaky and strained, but there was no audible evidence of it at all.

Alastor did try to be optimistic, so he let himself be pleased knowing at least whatever sounds he might make would go unheard. It was one less thing to worry about when it took so much attention to get just his body to behave.

One particularly targeted poke deep into the bone sent lightning up Alastor’s arms and his mind vaporized for less than a second. In that minuscule lapse of his mental faculties his leg had kicked out and he realized he’d let off an all too telling shriek of radio feedback.

Right. Those sounds played loud and clear. How could he forget.

Rein it in, Alastor. Do not give him the god damn satisfaction.

But it was too late. Vox’s eyes somehow got brighter. His grin glowed enough to strain Alastor’s eyes and he let out an ugly bark of laughter. “You’re- you’re- Oh shit, this is amazing! It’s tickling you!?”

Was-

Goodness gracious in heaven.

Was Vox seriously only just now putting that together? Had Alastor’s honest-to-god horrible attempt to stifle his reactions thus far not made it blatantly obvious?

Every day Alastor was more and more bewildered at the new heights of Vox’s stupidity. He had to take a steadying breath to keep his composure in the face of Vox’s total obliviousness.

But if Vox truly hadn’t known he was tickling Alastor, what did he think he was doing? It did tickle, aggravatingly so. If that was Vox not even trying… Well, there was nothing Alastor could do about it now besides make Vox feel dumb and small. He was quite good at achieving that, and it was so much fun!

So he raised an eyebrow with every ounce of patronization he could muster, which was no small amount, and summoned a corny ‘DING, DING, DING!’ from his supernatural soundboard.

Congratulations, Vox! You win! Claim your prize! It does, indeed, tickle. What a tough one; how ever did you figure it out?

“Hey! Enough of that attitude! You’re so unbelievable fucked right now.”

It appeared he’d succeeded at making Vox feel inferior. Hurray for minor victories! He was, however, not surprised in the slightest about what came next.

Vox’s hands latched onto Alastor’s ribs and shank him sideways, it tickled so much more than his elbows had.

Alastor’s body seized at the sudden onslaught of sensation. It felt like it was ripping through his entire body—from his ribs to his chest and then down every nerve until it reached his fingers and toes. Had it really been so long since he’d been tickled that he’d forgotten just how miserable it was? He’d have counted the years but simple math seemed to be out of his grasp at the moment.

It continued for longer than it took Alastor to mentally curse all of Vox’s family and ‘friends’ in every language he knew. Vox’s claws had a way of scratching so deeply into his ribs Alastor was shocked he hadn’t torn his coat. He didn’t even want to think about what his laughter must have sounded like underneath the gag.

Alastor wanted to sink into the shadows and never look at Vox again, unless he was actively being dismembered. 

“Ohoh, Alastor! This is perfect! I hope you’re fucking seething, bitch.”

Seething was one word for it, sure.

Vox just would not stop. There was no way Alastor could angle his body that would get his hands off of him. He knew it was pointless to struggle but he needed just a single moment to pull himself together. Vox’s hands never stopped clawing into Alastor’s ribs as they drifted upward towards his armpits.

The day that Alastor took a bite out of Vox’s liver, chewed it up, and spit it out onto his smug flat face would be a fantastic day indeed.

Not a single part of Alastor was under his own control when his head pulled itself up with a yelp that was thankfully silenced. The tingling lingered under his skin even as Vox’s hands lowered back down.

Too far down. Nearly to his hips.

The world screamed at Alastor to just do anything. Anything at all that would get him away from Vox. His legs flailed around frantically until finally they found enough purchase in the smooth floor to push him away.

He didn’t get very far before Vox tightened his grip to still him. “Woah. Where do you think you’re going?” Alastor was dragged back into place by the same hands that kept clawing without a second of reprieve. Vox’s giant hands pulling him by his ribs so easily made him feel horribly small.

More wires shot up and wrapped around Alastor and suddenly he couldn’t squirm at all. He was practically cemented in place, from his ankles to his shoulders. The complete restriction of his movement made it tickle worse, somehow, and he couldn’t so much as shift away from any of it.

Vox’s voice was low and evil as he spoke. “Good fucking luck rolling away now.”

A heavy weight of actual panic settled in Alastor’s stomach. Before he could fully cope with it Vox’s fingers shoved their way behind him and found his shoulder blades.

Alastor was not weak by any means, but the strength of the wires keeping him so helplessly immobile while his body attempted to thrash around made him feel like he might as well be made of cloth. He couldn’t kick his legs out. He could barely pinch his shoulders together. He couldn’t arch away. There was one thing he could do, and it was torn out of him before he could even think about it. Screeching feedback rang out loud enough to sting Alastor’s own ears.

Vox’s face contorted at the sound and only relaxed again when it stopped.

“Eugh. You’re lucky this look is so fitting for you, Al, because the sound is terrible.”

What good news! Alastor reached deep into the radio waves accessible to him and grabbed at every single scratch of friction he found to aim them directly at Vox. Stinging ears weren’t so bad, really, when it meant he got to antagonize him.

Alastor was rewarded when Vox abandoned his ribs to cover where his ears would have been if he wasn’t malformed. Obviously, it achieved nothing because there were no actual ears there.

Ha. Idiot. 

“Fuck!”

Moron.

If he wasn’t so focused on maintaining his weaponized feedback, and if he wasn’t laughing so hard at Vox floundering about in agony like a suffocating fish, it would have been easier to catch his breath. But he wasn’t going to give up the bit for something as trivial as air! Watching Vox writhe at the noise was just too comical.

“Alright, Alastor. You shut the fuck up.”

Alastor’s attention was pulled away from the feedback as Vox dug his fingers into both his hair and ear in a singular, painful, grip. It trickled out of Alastor’s hold and slipped back into the radiowaves. Damn.

At least the pain of Vox’s sharp claws sinking into his head made for a nice change of pace, but Vox leaned in far too close for any real enjoyment to be had from it.

“I own you, bitch!”

The joke wrote itself–too easy to even dignify with a full thought. Unfortunately the punchline was at Alastor’s expense. When the laugh track from his soundboard begged to play aloud anyway, Alastor humbly permitted it to.

A dark rumble left Vox’s throat as, happily for Alastor, he must have misinterpreted it as a slight against himself. Unhappily, in the same second his hand made contact with Alastor’s belly and each finger drove deep into the skin.

Alastor’s core tightened beneath Vox’s fingers, but he could neither curl up or lean away. Vox didn’t even offer him the dignity of angling his face away from his prying eyes anymore, and when he tried he was only met with a painful resistance at his scalp and the base of his ear.

Alasator so rarely got butterflies of all things, but the absolute powerlessness of his position twisted his gut over and over and over again. The–Alastor didn’t even know what to call it–anxiety? Nervousness? Boiling rage? The feeling tickled his stomach from the inside out and that was almost worse than what Vox’s hand was doing.

Vox explored every inch of Alastor’s belly with his disgusting, over-active claws. The thought of Vox building any sort of familiarity with his body sickened Alastor, but more than that, it made him feel entirely too trapped. In this chair, in the wires, in his skin. He needed out, out, out.

“Don’t forget who's in charge here,” Vox said, and he was close enough Alastor could feel the moisture from his breath.

If Alastor could speak he’d be able to sink a proverbial knife into Vox’s insecurities. He didn’t know how exactly–he couldn’t think right now–but he was a wordsmith and he knew his way around the underside of Vox’s skin. Even if it weren’t for the gag, though, Alastor was surely laughing too hard to tame his tongue.

The only thing he had any ounce of control over was his eyes, and he’d take every millimeter of allowance Vox overlooked and use it to the fullest of his ability. He wanted to look away, or to shut his eyes entirely to spare himself from the sight of Vox’s greasy grin. He didn’t allow himself the comfort; instead, he forced his eyes open and strained to set them on Vox’s screen.

Vox did notice the effort, but it only seemed to encourage him to keep going, completely unbothered.

The scraping and probing and wiggling was all getting to be too much. Alastor’s chest ached from laughter that couldn’t be released. It was all building and building and Alastor wasn’t even sure if he could feel his belly anymore, or if the tickling was bypassing it entirely to go straight to his brain. After a long, dynamic battle of will, Alastor’s eyes snapped shut and he lost his last scrap of power.

No sooner than his eyes closed did Vox shove his face back roughly, apparently losing interest. As he abandoned his tight grip on Alastor’s hair he must have ripped out a few strands judging by the lingering sting. It was nice to know that Alastor’s last desperate grab for dominance was nothing more than a minor amusement to Vox. Something to be literally thrown away the second it stopped playing the game.

Taking an axe to Vox’s face had never been more appealing. 

His savoring of the image was cut short all too soon when Vox added his now free hand to the mess on his stomach.

The realization hit Alastor like a bucket of cold water and sent a shiver crawling down his spine. This whole time, Vox was only using one hand on his belly. This whole time, he’d been paying more attention to Alastor’s face than to his tickling. 

Alastor could hang his head and hide his face now, but that was nothing. Not when Vox’s thumbs could come together to press into the middle of his waist while his grotesquely long fingers creeped all the way around his hips to meet at his spine.

Vox’s hands weren’t as tight as the wires were around him, but they were warm and they were moving and tickling so many spots at once Alastor didn’t even know which way he wanted to squirm. Not that it would help, because with his entire waistline surrounded and pressure coming from every single direction there wasn’t the dimmest hope he’d escape the feeling for a second.

“You’re so pathetic,” Vox said, and for the first time ever his voice successfully held weight in Alastor’s mind. Alastor didn’t have a choice; it commanded the space. It echoed through his thoughts until it was the only thing left. “I can’t believe this is so easy.”

Alastor was pathetic like this. Vox wasn’t wrong. He’d never felt so out of control.

He was beyond the point of processing individual touches. It all melted into one continuous wall of stimulation that had him curling his hooves inside of his boots and screaming into the gag.

Like waves crashing into a rocky shore, rushes of sensation lapped at a new spot every couple of seconds. Every time he even started to get used to it from one side, Vox’s fingers would twitch in just the right way on the other and keep him breathless.

Was his head getting lighter? Was time slowing down? His senses were blurring. Sadistically, the only thing that stayed sharp was the ticklish agony on his torso.

Suddenly he fell further forward than the wires had allowed for in a while and in his heightened state the movement sent his heart up his throat. He realized, though with much more effort than he’d like to admit, Vox’s hands had abruptly stilled and his restraints had loosened. Before he could process the implications of that, Vox shoved his hand in between the wires and Alastor’s chest, and his claw hooked around the top of his collar.

Something must be seriously wrong with Alastor’s nerves, because just the tip of Vox’s claw brushing against his neck kept him giggling like a giddy child.

Alastor was helpless to protest as Vox sliced through his clothes, from his neck to his hips, all while leaving a line of tingles festering under his skin. The layers of fabric fell to the side, uncovering his torso underneath.

Just as usual, Vox’s perversions knew no bounds. Something twisted in Alastor’s chest. He couldn’t tell if it was the exposure of his skin itself, or the way Vox’s eyes roamed his body with unrestrained lust.

An elk call was ripped from his soundboard without warning when Alastor was overtaken by a rush of vulnerability. There was something about being stripped so effortlessly, like a doll, and being put on display for an audience of one that sent a simmering heat down Alastor’s neck. 

Vox was gracious enough to give Alastor time to wallow in his mortification. He kept his hands off for a couple of minutes, but Alastor still felt touched by the force of his wandering gaze alone.

Then, once Vox got bored or impatient or some combination of the two, the wires tightened again and buried into Alastor’s fur. They felt rougher against his skin than they had against his coat. He felt every drag of resistance burning lines into his chest and stomach, and holding him so, so still.

The red-hot rage that was bubbling in his throat stung him from the inside, and it had no way to escape except for the twitching of his eye and a deep, throaty growl that was lost to the gag.

“Don’t worry, Al,” Vox said. He may as well have been underwater with how distant it sounded behind the heartbeat in Alastor’s ears. “There’s no one here to see you but me.” 

Contempt. 

Repulsion. 

Begrudgingly, dawning respect. If for nothing more than managing to actually shake Alastor, the unshakable.

When Vox’s hand began to raise toward his naked stomach, it was all Alastor could focus on.

The knuckles of his blue claws glinted in the light as they twirled the fur around their points. It sent a shiver up his back and he watched in resigned mortification as his skin very visibly twitched in reaction. 

Vox raked a winding path through Alastor’s fur starting at the edge of his wound and working his way around his torso. He lingered slightly on Alastor’s sides, and Alastor suspected it was just to watch him squirm.

Eventually all of Vox’s fingers dropped out but one. That single finger lazily drew circles around Alastor’s navel. Slowly. Each rotation narrowed the circle incrementally, with the threat and promise of eventually dipping inside.

It felt so incredibly childish. So domestic, in a way. It made Alastor feel green around the edges.

And yet, he was just as nervous about the ending, so who was really being childish? He couldn’t help himself as his struggling increased the smaller the circle got, until Vox’s needle-thin claw was balancing on the edge of the canyon.

He steeled himself for the onslaught of sensation that was sure to come. Just as he sucked in a breath and tensed in anticipation, the circle abandoned its target and began to grow.

Alastor’s soundboard spit out a shocked record scratch before he could even recognize that he’d been caught off guard. 

Vox was a putrescent tease. And Alastor couldn’t deny that it worked. He had to give credit where credit was due; it was just good game. He flicked his chin towards Vox in acknowledgement.

His unwavering modesty earned him a delightful show–Vox visibly bristled and Alastor saw the briefest misalignment of some of his pixels. Vox was right: this is easy.

“What? Is this entertaining you? Is this just so funny?”

Yes and yes, and the way Vox’s voice cracked in insecurity most definitely helped. 

What could he say? It’s not his fault Vox got him so giggly with this gentle tickling which, by the way, Vox still hadn’t let up on. Why shouldn’t he throw it back in his face?

“Well it doesn’t make a difference to me! It doesn’t change the fact that I can do whatever the fuck I want and all you can do is sit there and fucking take it!”

That wasn’t inaccurate, no.

The circle of Vox’s claw had been growing and it had reached the edge of Alastor’s ribs. Vox delicately scratched at the ridge before he slowly slinked down, and down, and traced the contour of his hips.

On cue, and to his dismay, Alastor’s body jumped in place and strained against the wires to push Vox away.

Vox’s finger paused. 

“Good spot?”

Ah.

Both of Alastor’s hipbones were apprehended by Vox’s hands. Even without moving, the contact had Alastor squealing and bucking into his restraints.

“They’re like handlebars.” He had the audacity to sound distracted! Of course they were like ‘handle bars’ in Vox’s sickening, gigantic hands! “It’s like they were made for me to grab.”

Like they were made for him to grab.

For Vox to grab.

Another elk call slipped through. It was humiliating enough before Vox literally laughed in his face. “Always on brand with you. Fucking hell.” 

Ha ha ha. Because he was a deer. Hilarious.

Before he could roll his eyes electricity tore through him. At least, real electricity would have been preferable. 

It tickled so bad. He could do nothing but scream and flail, except he couldn’t scream or flail. He couldn’t do anything. But his body sure did put the effort in. He surprised himself when he actually managed to rock the chair back and forth, barely, but it didn’t achieve a single thing in terms of getting Vox’s dirty hands off of him.

It never ended. Just when he thought Vox was about to ease up, he found a new way to attack and Alastor’s futile struggle renewed–and then he did it again and again and again. Alastor couldn’t breathe. If he could hear himself he knew it would be nothing but outrageous, unreasonably loud cackling and desperate gasps for air.

Vox was sick for enjoying this. There was a reason he wound up in hell.

Though, the clawing and scratching and digging into his pelvis was enough of a reminder that Alastor, too, was in hell. Here he was, in the land of red skies just the same as his tormenter. If Alastor were on the other side of this situation he would be just as entertained. They were cut from the same cloth and as much as Alastor despised the comparison he had some appreciation for the thematic irony of their parallels. 

“I own you. I own every part of y-y-you.”

That sudden glitching didn’t sound like great news. Not when it was paired with forceful squeezes that had Alastor’s vision blurring.

“I own your voice a-and your b-b-body, and-” 

Squeeze. “And-” 

And the only thing Alastor could make out were the colors flashing across Vox’s screen. Naturally Vox can’t even handle the simple task of torturing a captive without crashing like a pathetic, miserable, wretched-

Squeeze. “And-” 

And what was that about appreciation? Parallels? It was all lost on Alastor now. 

Squeeze. “And-” 

And he was going to incinerate Vox and dump his ashes in a jar and throw the jar into fire and lick up the molten glass and-

Squeeze. “And-” 

And Vox was the most worthless soul in all of pentagram city.

Squeeze. “And-” 

And Alastor was absolutely powerless, at his mercy, and forced to endure everything, and Vox wasn’t even conscious to see what he was doing.

Squeeze. “And-”

And there was nothing he could do to rouse him.

Squeeze. “And-” 

And tears fell, and his vision was no less blurry for it.

Squeeze. “And-” 

And he had no more fight left.

Squeeze. “And-”

And he hung his head.

Squeeze. “And-” 

And he submitted.

Squeeze. “And-” 

Squeeze. “And-” 

Squeeze. “And-”

Squeeze. Scribble. Poke. “No way.”

And the beast stirs.

Scratch. Scribble. Poke. “Noho fucking way!”

And Alastor couldn’t remember why he ever wanted Vox to wake up. 

Even after all of that, Vox didn’t stop. While one hand rose to grab his chin, pushing the wet fabric of the gag further into his cheeks and literally rubbing Alastor’s tears into his face, the other kept tickling one hip. Distantly, he heard a fuzzy elk call, but he hardly even registered it as his own.

It was some cruel joke that the loss of the hand, instead of offering relief, just made the tickling asymmetrical and somehow–by the ill-will of God Himself and His personal hatred of Alastor–that was worse.

Vox’s screen came closer to his eyes. His hold on his face was sickeningly gentle, but still firm enough to keep him from turning away from the light. It hurt to look at through his tears, but Alastor welcomed the pain as a distraction to the tickling. He tried to, anyway. His eyes wouldn’t cooperate.

“Oh, Al. Look at you. You’re a complete fucking mess.”

The tone of Vox’s voice sent a shiver halfway down his spine, and the words themselves finished the job. He was a mess. He was a spill on a hospital floor, and little else.

His head bobbed like a ship in a storm. Was that him? Or was that Vox? He couldn’t tell. The motion made him sick. The assault of his over-stimulated hip made him sicker. Vox’s thumb rubbing across his face made him literally gag. It hurt; his diaphragm was likely failing by this point. It hurt and it was wonderful.

He didn’t realize Vox was wiping his tears until his mutant tongue fell out of his screen and licked it off of his claw. 

It was a pity Vox didn’t seem to want to taste his blood. His open wound was staring Vox in the face if it was really too much trouble to cut him open himself.

When there was another series of aggressive squeezes, Alastor feared for a second Vox had broken again, more, and he did everything he could to pull away. But when he met Vox’s eyes they were alert and watching. He couldn’t stand to look at him for more than a second. He had to close his eyes.

Was Vox watching him like a zoo animal worse than him not being awake at all? Alastor didn’t know. He couldn’t hold onto a single thought long enough to ponder.

It must have been hours of this. It must have been less than twenty seconds. Maybe it was five minutes? It felt like days. 

Was he still crying? 

Would his hip eventually reject from his body and slip out in a wave of eroded skin and bone and muscle and blood?

Vox stopped. Maybe. He still felt phantom sensations. Vox was still touching him. He honestly couldn’t tell if his hand was moving or not. Opening his eyes to look felt like too monumental a task, and his hip was so over-worked and hyper-sensitive it all felt indistinguishable. Still, whatever was happening was a break enough that he was able to collapse in his seat. He hadn’t realized how sore his muscles had gotten from his thrashing until they all gave out at once.

He only got the answer that yes, Vox’s hands had stilled, when it began to move again. It was a light touch, and it wasn’t as bad, but it still made him squirm. Exhausted as he was, the involuntary movement ached, but that was comforting. 

Finally it left his hip to instead ghost over his belly. The spasm of his core muscles hurt. It hit his ribs. His fruitless twisting was painful.

He was still recovering from the nightmare at his hips, but maybe it was worth it if it gave him this full-body burn that helped him ground himself.

The touch walked itself over to his chest. His wound was tender–enough so that he could feel the pain swell as Vox’s claw dragged nearer.

Alastor couldn’t tell if his gag was just that damp from his earlier round of tears or if he actually drooled like a starving animal as that sharp point approached the injury. Would Vox truly be so kind as to indulge him? He would be a dream. 

Vox was watching his chest, not his face, so he allowed himself to squeeze his eyes and bite his tongue in anticipation as his claw delicately brushed over the edge of one of his stitches, and almost bit it off when Vox cruelly lifted his finger to pass over the wound.

Putrescent. Abominable. Tease.

The touch went to his collarbones instead. They didn’t seem to be particularly sensitive, fortunately, but his shoulders still jumped around regardless. Then it drifted up, and spiraled around Alastor’s unprotected neck. He was reminded how unforgiving Vox’s grip on his chin was when he was met with a sharp squeeze on his jaw as he tried to curl away.

Vox’s hold didn’t ease up until his other hand left his throat to join the first on his face. He cradled Alastor’s head on both sides like it was some priceless, fragile egg and skated his thumbs around the wet stains under his eyes.

Vox stared. Alastor didn’t know how, but he was sure this was another one of Vox’s perversions. There was no hiding his face or shying away, so instead he glared.

“I have to give it to you, Alastor. Your constitution is fucking unnatural.”

Oh Vox, how you humble yourself. What else did you expect from the Radio Demon?

Since Alastor had so much humility, and he was such a good sport, he supposed he could throw Vox a bone. He pulled out a generic crowd applause from his soundboard as a shiny little participation trophy. 

Vox’s brows pinched together. “What? Is that supposed to mean something?”

Why, yes: At least you tried your best.

“Whatever. I’m gonna stamp out that attitude sooner or later. You can’t take this forever.”

He could take this forever, technically. He wasn’t particularly inclined to, though.

Vox’s fingers drifted to his scalp. The feeling of his fingers running through his hair wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t the worst thing that could be happening. It just was. It made Alastor’s head feel heavy, even through the lingering support of the hand at the back of his neck. The touch went higher, near the base of his ears. It sent a light tingle up to the tip that made it flick away.

Alastor felt a sudden pause.

“Oh?”

Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it. May Vox’s double-death be soon and slow and traumatizing to all who witness it.

As Vox reached for his ear a jolt of panic went up Alastor’s back, freezing him in place like the prey he was. His ear twitched violently from Vox’s fingers and Vox laughed. He grabbed his ear again, rougher. Alastor barely lasted a second before he pulled his whole head away from Vox’s hands. Somehow, Vox let him.

Alastor could see his shadow on the floor: ears pinned, hunched meekly, and mouth pulled into a wobbly, strained smile. It was mortifying. He glared at it as if the power of eye contact could set it straight.

“How cute,” Vox said as his slow footprints circled Alastor. He was hyperalert; every single noise and shift of the air sent a chill through him, but he didn’t look away from his trembling shadow.

Vox stopped behind him. There was a beat before Vox grabbed his antler and pulled his head back. It didn’t hurt. But it was secure enough that he couldn’t move his head away from Vox’s prying gaze. He felt more vulnerable still, and he hoped his untamable feedback didn’t give it away.

Alastor noticed Vox’s eyes focus on something just beyond his face. His neck, apparently. Usually it was covered. Vox reached his arm over Alastor and stabbed his horrific, ugly talon into the lump in his throat. 

It stung, but not nearly enough. Alastor knew Vox’s claw was plenty sharp enough to do some real damage, and here he was being disgustingly gentle.

“Alastor. My prisoner. The lowest of the low.” His voice was so clearly that of a man who wanted him to hurt. If only he would just give in. 

It was so obvious what was holding him back. Alastor knew, and had known for quite some time, that Vox was riddled with affection. He had a tendency to be obsessive, but why he, the Radio Demon, was the subject of it he didn’t understand. It was disrespectful to both of them, and while occasionally entertaining and generally useful, more often than not made Alastor nauseous to think about.

Vox’s eyes flicked down. Alastor had to guess they fell to his chest, where his wound stood proudly–swollen and red. It was almost embarrassing how easy Vox was to read.

Alastor stood his ground. He bore his eyes challengingly into Vox’s screen and swallowed thickly, intentionally pressing his throat more firmly into Vox’s cowardly finger.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Get over yourself and do it.

Vox’s fans whirred louder and he dug his claw deeper. Minimal success in egging him on, but not enough to satisfy Alastor. As Vox’s finger began to move it lightly caught and scratched at his jugular. Not even shudder-worthy. Pathetic.

It drifted around the expanse of his taught throat for a little while longer until two wires materialized and wrapped around both of Alastor’s antlers. It was enough to catch Alastor off guard, he had to concede that, and more annoyingly it freed Vox’s hand while still keeping his head immobile.

Before Alastor could even begin to contemplate his predicament, his ear once again found itself caught in Vox’s grasp. Damn it. How had he already forgotten the entire reason Vox changed positions? 

Even Vox just holding the cursed thing made his heartbeat quicken. Ants were crawling all over his head, starting from the base of his ear and marching outward.

He narrowed his eyes at Vox’s entirely too smug grin, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain control much longer. As if what he had now could even deign to be called control.

The second Vox’s other hand made contact, just barely ghosting along the edge of his ear, Alastor felt the jolt of sensation shoot down his spine and settle in his toes. It tickled, surely, but it was such a different feeling than before. No less intense, but he didn’t feel an urge to scream–hardly even to laugh. Instead his body forced a gasp, as much as it was able to with the gag, and the amount of air pulled through his nose all at once almost stung.

There wasn’t an inch of give in the wires holding his head. No matter how hard he tugged, Vox’s fingers lingered and it was driving Alastor insane. More than any of the tickling before, the feeling at his ears made him feel overwhelmed with heat. It burned the skin of his face and coiled in his stomach, and he just could not pull away. Every stroke had his eye twitching, and Alastor hoped Vox couldn’t tell it was because it was so damn sensitive that the muscles in his face were spasming and nearly giving out.

When he and Vox met eyes, it was clear there was something buzzing behind his screen. A hunger, maybe. But Alastor was familiar with the hunger born from power, and this wasn’t quite the same.

The gentle, but excruciating administrations on his ear finally gave way to a jolt of pain as Vox suddenly pulled it sharply. It was a welcome change, of course, but caught off guard, Alastor still winced.

Paying no mind, Vox released his ear with one hand and slid his finger along Alastor’s face. Without an inch of give to recoil, Alastor had no choice but to feel it as it ghosted along his cheek, almost caressing his skin. When at last Vox hooked his claw under the gag and pulled it down, Alastor did little to fight his instinct to snap his now free teeth at the offending appendage.

It wasn’t unexpected, but it was still disappointing when he missed Vox’s finger. Oh well. In any case, it was entertaining enough to watch Vox flinch. Alastor didn’t hide his laugh at the sight.

“Forgive me,” he said. He tried to ignore the scratchiness of his voice. He’d been through enough humiliation already. “You can hardly blame a fish for swimming.” And it was true! What else did Vox expect freeing his tongue–and his jaw–when he finally had the upperhand in their little game? With his most valuable asset back in the race, it wouldn’t be long until Vox was knocked clean off his miserable high horse.

The gnawing, scratching pit in his chest wasn’t in any way an indication of his helplessness.

Vox’s face remained unimpressed. “Or a bitch from biting,” he drawled.

The riff was crude and uninspired, but the response was snappy enough to earn a genuine bark of laughter from Alastor. 

Alastor was promptly punished for his slip up–though wasn’t Vox always aiming for Alastor’s approval anyway? Maybe he’d be less vexing if he actually took the scraps Alastor offered him–when there was another rough tough on his ear. Alastor barely managed to silence himself and grit his teeth at the jolt of pain and creeping prickling washing down the back of his neck. 

In another circumstance, though Alastor refrained from physical contact, he could admit that the complete overflow of sensual input could be almost thrilling. Here, stuck in this damn chair, with an obsessed nutcase circling around him like a shark, though, it was vile.

And it was even worse when Vox’s touch lightened. Alastor felt, though he couldn’t see, the tip of Vox’s claw sliding up and down the edge of his ear. He involuntarily sucked in a shaky breath, and in that moment he decided there was absolutely nothing more humiliating. He managed to clench his jaw and cut it off at the end, but it was too late.

Vox heard it. And Alastor knew better than to hope he wouldn’t want to hear it again.

“What’s the matter, Al? Nothing to say?” The tone of his voice was wretched and shameless. If Alastor was a weaker man he would have screamed. 

He knew he had to bite back. He knew he had to use his voice–his best weapon–to twist this situation in his favor. But he couldn’t. His ear was under siege and despite Alastor’s tenacity, it was getting to him. Horribly so.

Still, he had to try. It’s not like he could do anything else. And he needed to prove Vox wrong! ‘Nothing to say’? Him? The Radio Demon? 

He briefly considered his words, and he briefly considered how to get ahold of his voice long enough to get them out. “What, do you want critiques?” It wasn’t his finest work. And the way his voice shook would have taken any pride out of it, even if it was.

“Please, be my guest,” Vox replied, unperturbed.

It was bait if Alastor ever heard it, but he could never resist a good bite. So he opened his mouth to rattle off a list, and suddenly Vox’s hands were on his sides. His retort died in a second to a startled cry and he snapped his jaw shut to try to muffle the tail end of it. He’d nearly forgotten just how sensitive he’d proven to be just during their brief exchange, but he was swiftly being reminded as bolts of ticklishness tore through his torso. He had gone right back to pulling on the wires and pushing his elbows in for cover as if he’d never stopped in the first place.

And Vox knew damn good and well what he was doing when he emphasized Alastor’s predicament with a faux innocent, “Sorry, what?”

Alastor didn’t intend to give in and break into laughter so soon, but it was impossible to hold back even a second more. Free of the gag his merriment roared out, and it was so clearly already broken from the amount of laughter he’d already been forced to give silently. He couldn’t answer Vox–he wouldn’t even put himself through the humiliation of trying–and that annoyed him to no end.

It wasn’t the worst thing happening right now. He’d rather not be subject to attacks on his free will, but being made to laugh in Vox’s face wasn’t horrible. It was almost satisfying, in a way. Cackling freely and channeling all of his burning rage through the sound. 

But Vox, of course, had other plans. There was a second where everything stopped but before Alastor could revel in the break Vox attacked his ears again. He dug into the base and Alastor couldn’t help but attempt to pull away.

He heard his laughter die down into shameful giggles and even though he’d held it in before when his ears were being targeted, the misdirection seemed to have opened the floodgates.

These softer snickers were much more of a wound to his pride than the full-blown cackling he’d succumbed to before.

It was entirely pathetic. On his end, unfortunately, but on Vox’s as well. “You have me as your- ngh- your wihilling prisoner. And yet, you cahaha- cahan’t bring yourself to- ahaha- inflict anything r-real upon me.”

The choppiness of his words meant nothing with the way Vox still bristled. “This is real, alright,” Vox said, not hiding in the slightest the massive hole in his ego Alastor had easily just chewed out.

Vox pressed his fingers into one specific spot–one Alastor was sure hadn’t even existed before because he'd never felt such a sensation quite so powerfully. It wasn’t torturous, not even close. It was something entirely different and Alastor didn’t even know how to categorize it. Still, somehow, the touch sent his stomach into a somersault and made his mind blank. He wasn’t prepared for the gasp that fell out, only slightly dampened by his sheer force of will.

Alastor hated to see Vox so smug. The way his lip quirked as he continued with, “At least, these reactions would make someone think so,” was enough to get him seething.

He tried to respond. He got as far as one word–one pathetic “I,” before Vox did it again, and suddenly any form of language became unreachable. Being interrupted with nothing but Vox’s hands was a new kind of low. Alastor felt heat building in his face, and he was chagrined to realize it was from the embarrassment he was feeling as much as the tingly explosion occurring on his scalp and creeping down his neck. He hoped Vox didn’t feel it.

“Hm?” Would Vox bleed if his stupid screen face was shattered, or would there just be fragmented glass Alastor could use to rub into Vox’s skin and mangle it?

He was too stubborn to not make another attempt. “I can- can- Ah-!” Can what? As fate would have it there’s not a single thing he can do right now except continue to make those abominable noises.

Somehow each time Vox hit that horribly, disgustingly sensitive spot, the sensation hit harder. The brick wall his thoughts were slamming into got more sturdy. As his consciousness erupted into electrifying clouds he managed to pry open his eyes–he wasn’t sure how long they’d been shut–and peak at Vox.

For one second, Vox wore a sadistically pleased grin. The next, upon taking in Alastor’s face, his expression went morbidly slack. His screen glowed so bright Alastor was sure it was going to explode. And then he was still.

Alastor wasn’t sure he could even picture what Vox had seen in him to cause such a reaction. Perhaps, if he were a weaker man, it would be shameful for him. But he wasn’t, and he could concede that all the shame fell to Vox, simply because of how entertaining it was to watch Vox freeze.

His hands were still on Alastor’s ears, and that was irritating, but at least they weren’t moving. They didn’t move for a while.

Quite a while. 

Dear, oh dear, was Vox actually broken? Alastor didn’t expect any less from that buffering picture show freak, but it was an undocumented low to fall into a coma in the middle of torturing a hostage. What a flop!

His attention was drawn to his shadow, whose antlers had morphed into antennae. It mimed out a glorious show of convulsive twitching before freezing with its arms in a broken robot position. Alastor couldn’t even reprehend the thing–it was acting much too silly for Alastor’s taste in this situation, but that was quite the accurate performance. When he laughed, this time at his own self fragment’s antics, it wasn’t as painful.

Still, as nice as the break was, it was really getting tedious at this point. Alastor summoned a beefy crash cymbal to hopefully stir Vox and remind him that he was rather in the middle of something. 

And oh. The way that Vox came to was indescribably precious. How quaint! How adorable! How utterly, utterly piteous. This man truly could not be less intimidating if he tried. If Vox’s soul was not already damned, Alastor would personally ask God to bless his heart. The way his eyes shuttered, taking in the room with confusion as if it was his first time in his own tower was just a sign of a hopeless case.

Alastor snuck another glance at his shadow. It looked awestruck. Alastor was inclined to agree. Despite Alastor’s distaste for Vox, the display was extraordinary. Alastor had a hard time believing it wasn’t on purpose.

As he finally regained his bearings, Vox yanked his hands away from Alastor with the smallest of whines. Perfect.

“Welcome back,” Alastor chirped pleasantly. There was no attempt at hiding his amusement. “Have a nice time away?” If anyone asked him, he’d say it was a genuine question! Maybe he was jealous of Vox’s ability to lose all control! Obviously, he’d be lying. Not a single soul was jealous of Vox ever.

Vox wasn’t quite stupid enough to miss the sarcasm–not that Alastor had been trying. “Oh, you absolute piece of shit!”

Then Alastor’s ribs were bombarded with fireworks. He didn’t stand a chance. The second Vox’s hands latched on, his body stiffened and spasmed, and he was screaming out laughter. Alastor never minded being loud, but even he was caught off guard with his own volume.

There Vox stayed. His fingers pressed into the hollows of his ribs while simultaneously managing to curl around and dig into the muscles on his back. The whiplash of being tickled again so badly with no real buildup this time was frustratingly effective. 

Despite the fact that Alastor knew he wasn’t able to fight his way out of the wires, his body still gave it its best effort. And the more it tried, the more helpless Alastor felt. He was so immobilized, down to his head, and Vox’s hands had completely free reign to do what they pleased. And they tickled him. And tickled him. And tickled him more.

Alastor was no stranger to laughing in Vox’s face, even before today, but he could only laugh so much. Eventually his voice began to give out. He was becoming light headed from his inability to breathe. His eyes welled up with tears. He wasn’t expecting Vox to stop, but surprisingly enough, he did.

It wasn’t a merciful break. Before he could even finish his last scratchy cackle Vox returned to his ears again. How Vox had not already grown bored of the spot was beyond him. Alastor wasn’t… bored of it, perse, but he was absolutely over it.

He was able to start catching his breath, but doing so made it that much more difficult to hide the noises Vox was getting out of him. Vox was too entertained by the sounds, and entirely undeserving. But Alastor could not silence himself with all the effort in the world. 

Alastor felt a tear slide down his face. A second later he felt the tip of Vox’s claw trace its path. He bit the air aggressively, knowing he’d not catch Vox’s finger but sending a warning anyway. 

As predicted, Vox flinched. It bordered on comical, and even though his hand immediately went back to his ear, Alastor felt smug and accomplished.

“I know, I know. A fish and his swimming, yada yada, blah-blah-blah.” The poor thing sounded so upset. Alastor was just playing the game! 

What was it Vox had said earlier? “A behehe- mmh- bit- aha!” God damn it. There was nothing more frustrating in all of Hell than being unable to say one simple sentence! Alastor took a steadying breath to keep himself from yelling out in aggravation. He tried again. “A bihitch-!” Congratulations were in order, he’d made it further than he had the first time. “From- ah- from-mm, eheh, bihitihing.” He got it out. It was a pathetic and useless accomplishment.

He caught the way Vox’s expression softened into affection. What a weak man. No amount of animosity could pry Vox off from around his finger. That, at least, was satisfying to know. It only lasted a second before Vox plastered a scowl on his screen. It didn’t fool Alastor in the slightest.

“Whatever,” Vox said, his annoyance palpable. “A bitch from biting, yes, I’m so hilarious. Now laugh.”

With that, his hands darted around and landed on his bare stomach.

Completely unable to double over, Alastor’s feet fluttered against the floor and somehow it slid the chair with enough force to push his chair into Vox. It was a mistake, and now he was even more trapped.

Vox’s hands wiggled over his stomach with a medical-like precision. Alastor was sure he’d go mad. At least, if he did, he wouldn’t have to face the predicament he was now in. He could feel how his fur shifted at Vox’s administrations, and even that sent a second wave of sensation–delicate, but still overwhelming–through his body.

And it went on and on and on. His throat was becoming sore from the forceful laughter. His face, which was more than used to holding a constant grin, was starting to hurt. It was a tenderness Alastor had become numb to, and he wasn’t pleased about the feeling returning after all these years.

He didn’t even realize he’d begun to cry once more until his own tears fell into his mouth. It was a fuzzy realization that his entire face was damp. This time, Vox didn’t seem to care.

Pinches. Squeezes. Pokes. Every little motion sent bolts of ticklish lightning through Alastor’s nerves. He couldn't cope with it.

His diaphragm contracted painfully, forcing out a hiccup. Then another. And another. Not even that jerky movement of his stomach was enough to shake off Vox’s fingers. His own laughter was suffocating, and this hiccuping only brought out a hotter fire to nip at his lungs.

It never stopped. His stomach was overcome with ticklish agony that dragged on for what felt like a lifetime. Vox didn’t slow, didn't ease up, never offered the slightest bit of relief. Like the machine he was, he kept going and going in perfect rhythm. 

He laughed so hard he thought he might throw up. He laughed so hard spots slowly formed in his vision. There was a sudden tug from the air itself and Alastor lost connection to his radiowaves. He simply grew too weak to hold them.

He was getting tired. Really, truly exhausted. Even without the wires holding him steady, Alastor wasn’t sure he even had the fight to thrash anymore. He had to hand it to Vox; it was an honest achievement to properly tucker him out. He didn’t remember the last time moving became this difficult, and he’d just gone face to face with the First Man. Even then, the pain of being nearly cut in half didn’t consume him a fraction as much as Vox’s sadistic, never ending tickling.

Eventually, his voice gave out entirely. He was too beside himself to ponder the implications of Vox being able to reduce the Radio Demon to complete silence, even without the help of that frivolous gag. Besides his gasps for air, all he could hear was the electricity flowing aggressively through his attacker.

Alastor was sure he must be getting more sensitive as the assault on his nerves went on. Somehow, the feeling was reaching all the way from the base of his antlers down to the tips of hooves. Not a single muscle in his body was responsive to his internal pleas to resist.

Even with his eyes clenched shut from overwhelming mirth, his vision was getting darker and darker still. If Alastor’s head wasn’t anchored down by the wires, he would have sworn it was rising off his body. He felt like a buoy caught in a midnight storm. He wasn’t sure where the night sky ended and the inky darkness of the ocean began. It was trying to pull him under. It was succeeding.

Alastor felt so shameful as he finally gave in. He wasn’t even sure if it was a conscious decision or if his body was acting on its own accord. All he knew was that if Vox didn’t stop soon, he may actually be tickled to double-death. He couldn’t imagine a more humiliating end.

He would have begged and pleaded and cried for mercy if he was physically able. If the very air itself wasn't being stolen from his lungs. All he could do was call out Vox’s name. And when he didn’t hear himself, he did it again. And again.

Distantly, he heard his sound effects skipping through frantically– playing anything to get Vox’s attention. Please. He couldn’t take any more.

He called. Again. Until finally, through his wheezing, he heard one pathetic, desperate, suffocating, “V- -x!”

And just like that, it all stopped.  

A nauseating wave of clarity hit Alastor as soon as Vox’s hands left his body. 

He was frozen. More still than the wires themselves held him. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself fall so low.

“Oh, me? Who were you calling for? Me? Just little old me? Begging for me to save your pathetic ass?”

Though he was pretending not to listen as he collected himself, he knew Vox had earned the right to rub it in his face. He wanted nothing less than to allow Vox the satisfaction, but he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it.

So he fixed his eyes on the ceiling and made a show of struggling to breathe for a little longer as he let Vox have his fun. It wasn’t entirely fake; it was difficult to take in air. He still hadn’t managed to stop hiccupping.

“‘Vox, pretty, pretty please stop tickling me, I can’t take it! Vooox! Oh, it just tickles soooo much, Vox!’”

Annoyingly, despite Vox being the one doing a horrible impression, it did somehow hit Alastor’s ego. He didn’t sound like that, but he may as well have.

When Vox was done gloating, Alastor was acutely aware of how his eyes turned to him. Drinking up his vulnerability. It made him uncomfortable to sit in it, but doing so would give him more time before Vox touched him again. At least he assumed so, considering he seemed to be content for now just to watch.

Alastor wouldn’t be content if their positions were reversed. He would never have offered mercy. He would have laughed in his victim’s face and kept going as he watched the light drain from their eyes.

And Vox was so, so close, too. It wouldn’t have been much longer until Alastor went unconscious. 

The longer Alastor thought about it, the more he realized it wasn’t him that was pathetic. All along, it was Vox. Yes, he’d folded and asked for mercy, but all he really did was say Vox’s name, which could have meant anything. And just like that, Vox had given in with no shame, as if that in itself was a victory. Just worthless.

At peace with how things had transpired, Alastor finally let his eyes fall back onto Vox.

“Welcome back,” Vox chirped pleasantly. “Have a nice time away?”

Wow, leave it to the video star to steal his bit. 

Now that he was back in the game, Alastor recovered his lost static and made his move. “Whahat a wa-hicc-waste.” 

Whoops! He definitely should have calculated those hiccups to begin with. But no matter! He was nothing if not flexible. Immediately he switched to his most sickening condescending tone. It wasn’t a far cry from his normal voice when speaking with Vox. “Oh, dearie me!” The sheer unseriousness of his delivery was entertaining enough on its own. “Pardon my-hicc-my, well, that. How- ahaha! How unbecoming!”

The disconcerted look on Vox’s face made Alastor downright giddy. It never got old. He wiggled his feet at the ankle as much as he was able to to let out the energy Vox’s misery gave him.

“It’s a waste, by the way, because you wehere so-hicc-! Mhm.” It was funny to hiccup in Vox’s face, but it was still incredibly annoying to be interrupted. He shook it off. “So close to making it real. So close to actually- ehehe- achieving something. Why, I believe I was seeing stars towards the end there! Hahaha! And yet.” And yet here he was, perfectly fine. Nearly as if Vox hadn’t laid his hands upon him at all. So what was the point?

Vox did not like that. “I-! I’m not-! I ca- I- What? What are you even talking about? That was real! It was fucking real, what do you mean!?”

It was delicious.

Alastor’s tongue ran across his teeth inside his mouth as he took it in. Sometimes, when Alastor got over himself, he could begin to see why this man was so popular. If he hadn’t had a front row seat to him fumbling around like a god damn blockhead for the last 70 years he might have given in and watched it on the picture show like the rest of Hell.

Probably not, though. Alastor swarmed him with teasing crowd laughter. A cheap jest for him, but always effective with Vox.

“I’ve laughed harder than that over a cup of t-hicc-tea and good gossip with Zestial, I’m afraid.”

It wasn’t technically true. He’d shared a few good chuckles with the man on occasion but he’d certainly never laughed as hard as that.

“Zestial!?” Oh, he was a sight like this. Practically breaking from jealousy alone. “You’re lying, obviously.” Yes! Congratulations, detective. “I don’t even care.” You definitely do.

Vox wiggled his fingers on Alastor’s exposed neck. Alastor refused to give any reaction. He tried not to, anyway, but even after everything it still took so much not to giggle.

“Ha, I’m hurt. You really make me out to be a liar?” He could hear the poorly hidden mirth in his own voice. At this point it was barely even a blow to his pride anymore. They were way past that, collectively, and with his goal being simply to get on Vox’s nerves to enjoy the display, he couldn’t spare much focus on being abashed.

“Just shut up already,” Vox said. The genuine amount of bite had Alastor wishing he could lean in closer and really drink up the venom. “You called my name, like the little bitch you are, and begged and begged for mercy, so don’t pretend to be disappointed that you didn’t suffocate!”

Hmm. Alastor may have done that, sure, but Vox was the one who listened. If Alastor made a habit of listening to the pleas of his victims he wouldn’t have been much of a killer, now would he? 

“It was a dissappointment.” He overplayed his longing. Slightly. “Better- ahaha- better luck next teh- time, I -hicc- suppose!”

Alastor didn’t miss the way Vox set his eyes upon him with a sudden perplexity. Interesting. He could nearly hear the cogs creaking in that empty head of his. He’d be curious about what was suddenly on Vox’s mind if he wasn’t already positive it would be on par with a two-year-old.

Vox’s eyes stayed locked onto him as his hand drifted upward. He pressed the tip of his index finger softly to Alastor’s nose–affectionately–which was probably the most disgusting and revolting thing he’d done all night. Alastor was quick to let him know how he felt about it with a swift snap of his teeth, but by then he’d already pulled away.

Then both of his hands settled onto Alastor’s ears. Again.

Enough! By all that is holy! Hadn’t he had enough of that one damn spot?

“Something wrong?”

A hammer. Smashing Vox’s face. And his fingers and toes. And his organs. Striking once. Twice. A hundred times. Vox pulp.

Alastor attempted to shake his head, but no motion actually occurred. “No, no, nothing at all.” Die. “Carry oN-!”

If he’d ever thought he was above being humiliated by the noises he made he was wrong, apparently. The high-pitched shriek he just let out was the second worst thing ever to fall upon his ears. Vox’s overgrown, nasty claws were the first. The way they pinched into the crease between his scalp and the base of the cartilage was sending him over the edge.

The edge of what? It was beyond him.

“Is this what you were avoiding? Why?”

Alastor didn’t even know what Vox was muttering about. He’d have avoided it if he could, but it’s not like he had any agency either way. He didn’t dignify Vox with an answer. And how could he? Every twitch of Vox’s fingers had him gritting his teeth. 

It was a constant buzz of agitation, sitting at the forefront of his mind and making it impossible to think about anything else. Until suddenly it was a violent pang that tore through him and had him seizing from head to toe with the full force of the sensation. Completely against his will, he let out an obscene cry that seemed better suited for an erotic film.

Whatever Vox did, he did it two more times and each moan was more vulgar than the last. Alastor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was an intense feeling that sent an overwhelming heat pooling in his gut and his face, but it wasn’t that kind of heat. Even to his own ears, though, the sound was indistinguishable. To someone as perverted as Vox… Alastor’s stomach churned at what might be going through his head.

The blue light of Vox’s screen creeped closer like an obnoxious sweat bee. Alastor longed to swat it away.

“What, is it getting t-t-to you, Al?”

Oh, that stuttering was delightful! Every time Alastor began to think he was reaching a low, Vox gave him a new angle to drag him even lower. Of course Vox couldn’t handle it. That sexual deviant. “To mehehe?” Alastor wasn’t sure how much of the giggling was from Vox’s attention to his ears and how much was from the hilarity of Vox’s incompetency. “You seheem a-ahaha- little worse- mnmh- worse for wear y-yourself.”

He was answered with a wave of electricity emanating off of Vox. He was getting angry. Alastor could feel the pulses of lightning seeping into his fur from the tips of Vox’s claws. It was exciting!

“If you’re- ahaha! Ngh-! G-going to… to- mhmn.” If you’re going to electrocute me, make sure it hurts. It would be a nice distraction. If only he could get the request out through the nonsense pouring from his tongue.

“Aw, keep trying. You’ll get it out eventually.”

Mm.

Alright, that was enough of that. This ends now. It was time to break the picture box.

It would be easy, but incredibly demeaning to put himself through. Still, sometimes these things just had to be done. He had absolutely no doubts about the effectiveness of this strategy, considering Vox’s poorly hidden carnal yearning for him, and devastating fragility.

Alastor forced a lustful twinkle into his eyes and locked them onto Vox’s. He swallowed down his shame and let the sensations on his ears lead him into an undeniably pornographic gasp. 

“Vox.”

It was humbling to hear coming from his own mouth, but entirely worth it with the way Vox instantly faltered. Alastor could feel the eruption of heat from his screen even from this distance.

“Wha- uh, huh?”

Right.

“Vox. Mm, oh, Vox.” Was he over doing it? Vox already looked ill. He might as well put him out of his misery now. “Ahah- V-Vox…”

Vox’s hands slipped off of his head and he heard a thump behind him. Cleanly knocked out.

Incredible. Not even Alastor could have imagined it would happen so quickly! He felt laughter bubbling up again and this time he was all too happy to let it out. It’s like Vox was made purely for Alastor’s own entertainment.

He shuffled his feet against the floor and slowly managed to rotate his chair so he was facing Vox. With his head held as it was, it was difficult to look, but he wouldn’t miss this view for the world.

Vox was on his knees, slumped over. His screen was glowing an even more obnoxious blue than usual and rapid text was flying across it. Alastor had seen this error effect before. He’d caused it himself plenty of times! And it never got old.

Alastor’s shadow approached Vox’s body and pointed at it. It looked back and forth between Vox and Alastor with a scowl before reaching its arms out to mimic strangling him. After a moment it pivoted, forming the silhouette of a knife in its hand and pretending to stab him. Alastor understood; it wasn’t pleasant to be an object of desire, even when it worked to his advantage. Nevertheless, it made it all the more satisfying to watch Vox’s little fixation become his undoing.

There was a good few minutes of silence–save for his static and continued hiccuping–before Vox stirred. The second he did, Alastor’s shadow dissipated. Alastor distantly wished he could do the same, but he was much more comfortable now than he had been when this had started.

“Welcome back,” he chirped pleasantly, though there was a fair amount of disdain tucked into his voice. Good. “You’re as predictable as always. And disgusting."

“You- you- I- uh.”

Eloquently put, as always.

“Fuck off,” he managed. Alastor would love to. “I’m done with this.” He should have been done with this ages ago.

Suddenly most of the wires holding him still retreated. He immediately felt lighter with the loss of tension. Being able to stretch out his muscles after being forced to sit still for so long was like a reward for a job well done. The job, of course, being putting Vox in his place. His upper body was still wrapped tightly and secured to the back of the chair, but even that was infinitely more comfortable than before. 

Once he was sure his blood was flowing to his limbs properly he crossed his legs and returned his attention to Vox. “Well, every good host knows when to call it a night! Haha!”

In reply, Vox forcibly grabbed his face and yanked the gag back up over his mouth. Touché.

“It’s time you shut the fuck up.”

He got that from the gag, thanks.

Vox let out a heavy breath and trudged off. It was clear as day he wasn’t happy with how the events had transpired, which was a delight to Alastor. The thought of Vox retreating to sulk in a corner somewhere after trying so hard to break the Radio Demon and failing genuinely made him feel warm inside.

Once Vox left the room the lights switched off. The darkness was comfortable and inviting. Alastor leaned back in his chair, more relaxed since he’d been since his capture. He was more than glad to be left alone.

---

"Welcome back," but it's not that funny this time.

So. Hi. I hope this fic lived up to expectations.

Anyway I had an absolute blast working out the differences between Vox's and Alastor's narration styles, their voices, the way they interpret the exact same events, etc. For one thing, Alastor just does not shut up even in his internal monologuing, so this fic is <2k longer than Vox's, which was already far too long.

He is so very fun to write, though, and he genuinely makes me laugh. He also genuinely disgusts me. He's an awful, awful, man who thinks awful, awful thoughts.

If you thought Vox was an unreliable narrator, Alastor is even worse. Half of his thoughts are him gaslighting himself for comfort. It's adorable and pathetic.

And of course he's entirely aware of the way Vox thinks about him, and he's simultaneously incredibly amused and incredibly disturbed.

More specific notes, something I've been sitting on, is that Alastor hates dogs so much he won't even use them in figurative speech. He uses the much less common 'can't blame a fish for swimming' instead of 'can't blame a dog for barking.' I thought that was funny. And in general, his figurative and expressive language was a joy to develop--he's such a silly guy who says and thinks such silly things, tainted by his southern roots, homocidal urges, vintage loser boy aesthetic, and so on.

I could talk about the experience of writing these two fics for hours if given the chance but I think I'll leave it here for now. Thank you all so much for your interest in this fic, I hope I delivered! Much much more to come as I'm incredibly lee!Alastor pilled.

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Playing Dumb

A/N: i had to get this out of my head before it killed me, it's my first mighty nein fic so be nice yall and to the anon that sent in that fic request, I promise I'm writing I'm just slow 😭

Summary: While staying in an inn, Caleb and Molly get some well needed alone time but they run into some sensitive issues caused by Caleb's grown out beard. (Slight warnings for NSFW, but just talking and touching)

The only sound that was emitting from the small closed off room of the inn the Nein were staying in were quiet moans and heavy breathing. Even then, Molly considered whether Caleb might have cast a cloak of silence over them to keep their activities private. It had been weeks since he and Caleb had been able to be alone for more than 15 minutes, both the exhaustion and the constant action keeping them occupied.

Molly groaned sensually into Caleb's mouth before pulling back, smiling as Caleb tries to chase him with his mouth. "My my, Mister Widogast." Molly grins toothily as Caleb's hands start to wander, already tracing down Molly's open back shirt. "Who taught you how to kiss that that?"

"You did." Caleb replies, deadpan as ever, which pulls a chuckle out of Molly. He quickly occupies Molly's mouth with his own, cutting him off before he can make a joke. His hands slide around Molly's shirt and under the front of it, enjoying as the muscles jump below his fingers at the unexpected touch.

Molly closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in the feeling, the pure pleasure of having Caleb in his mouth and his hands warm against his skin. He happily climbs into Caleb's lap when tugged to, his legs straddling the other man's as they continue to kiss.

Caleb at first had been a little awkward to try and romance, the poor wizard too socially unaware to really take to flirting. After a little bit of teaching however, he'd warmed right up to it and been surprisingly talented in the bedroom.

Caleb gently moved and lowered Molly onto the bed, laying on his back, still kissing as he rearranged them. Molly wrapped his tail around Caleb's thigh, gently squeezing the man atop of him.

Caleb moved his kisses from Molly's mouth to across his jaw and down to his chest. "I must say," Molly murmurs through soft pants. "You've gotten quite skilled at pleasing me."

"Have I?" Caleb rasps as he kisses gently on Molly's soft, purple skin.

Molly hums his approval, leaning into Caleb's wandering hands that were quickly getting impatient. "Very much so." He groans out when Caleb's hands find his rear and squeeze deep into the flesh.

Caleb smiles as he moves his kisses up to Molly's neck, burying his face in the space. "Let's try and keep it that way." He speaks into the skin.

Molly's jerks at the sensation, a soft yelp pealing from his mouth and Caleb pulls back, taking a moment to admire Molly's purple flush before questions rise to the surface. "You okay?" He asks, a small smile held back.

"Just fine." Molly waves him off. "Continue, please."

Caleb narrows his eyes at the tiefling below him. "Was that a good noise? I can go somewhere else."

"No, no. Keep going." Molly shakes his head quickly. "You just surprised me, that's all. It was more sensitive than I remembered."

Caleb nods and leans down to continue his sucking on Molly's neck. He can feel Molly tense under him, his muscles tightening below the hands that hold his ass (which, wow, that didn't make Caleb any less turned on), preparing before he can even touch down on his skin.

Caleb ignores it and continues, kissing the thin skin between Molly's shoulder and neck. He gently nibbles the spot after sucking it dark purple, soothing it with his tongue. His brows knit together as he feels Molly squirm below him, his breathing uneven yet his noises are cut off.

Caleb pulls back and sees a helpless grin spread on Molly's face, his lip caught between his teeth as he looks up at Caleb with a deep purple blush spread across his cheeks that makes his light freckles pop. He looked beautiful. Caleb thought in the back of his mind that he wished he could keep Molly looking like this forever.

Caleb smiles as he realizes exactly what kind of sensitivity he was dealing with. He quickly makes a decision and slides a hand up from Molly's waist to his hair and up to one of his horns.

"Can you hold still, please?" Caleb asks, gripping his horn gently and pulling Molly's head to the side to open up more space on Molly's neck.

He can see Molly swallow nervously and nod. "O-Of course."

Molly bites back another surprised yelp as Caleb's lips touch down on his neck, sliding up to kiss under his ear. The problem wasn't his lips (heaven's forbid it would ever be that) but the scruff of a beard Caleb had.

Molly was almost sure that Caleb knew he was ticklish, he wasn't blind to the pokes Jester would send his way in retaliation for his own pranks or the chuckles that would slip out when Caleb would be too gentle about touching him when they were alone. But despite that, Caleb had never tickled him on purpose before.

Molly let out a choked off giggle, barely holding back a whine as Caleb's beard scraps his skin, ticklish beyond what Molly thought possible. "Something wrong?" Caleb hums.

"N-No." Molly murmurs, a grin spread on his face. "Just, maybe move to another spot?"

"Why? I like it here." Caleb replies, leaning back in to rub his cheek on Molly's neck before kissing the spot.

"That's n-nahaha-not what you said earlier."

"Mmm, I changed my mind." Caleb hums into his skin.

Molly almost jumps out of his skin at the sensation, quiet chuckles making their way past his lips. He finds himself mostly unable to move due to still being held in place by Caleb holding one of his horns, which inconveniently was also turning him on. Great, Caleb was going to kill him with kisses and he'd die tickled and horny (which, in hindsight, wasn't the worst way you could die).

Caleb's free hand travels up to Molly's chest and gently traces with just his fingertips all the way down to Molly's belly, teasing the happy trail he had.

Molly downright full body squirms, his tail now flicking nervously as giggles make their way out of his lips, unable to hold back now that Caleb was using his hands.

"Cahaleb!" Molly laughs fully.

"Hmm?" Caleb murmurs into Molly's skin, behind his ear.

"Y-you're tihihickling me!"

"Oh? Am I?" Caleb asks, nuzzling into the space behind his ear, sending Molly into beautiful boisterous laughter.

"You a -ahaha!- asshole!" Molly growls through his giggles. "You were doing it on purpose!"

"Doing what?" Caleb teases and Molly can hear his smug grin.

Before Molly can reply Caleb's hand jumps to life again, gently wiggling into the flesh of his lower stomach and causing Molly to try and jackknife but with little success with Caleb laying on top of him.

"N-Nohoho!" Molly cackles, unable to even squirm to protect himself.

"What's wrong, Schatz?" Caleb murmurs and Molly can hear his grin. "I'm giving you all that attention you wanted. I'm even touching you up and you're laughing at me."

Caleb squeezes roughly at Molly's hips, pretending to be trying to pull his belt lower to follow his hands downward but really exposing more skin to circle his thumbs into.

Molly's tail lashes wildly, smacking Caleb in the leg a few times, as he tosses his head back in loud, unbridled laughter, his flush spreading all the way down his neck as his feet kick against the bed.

"I'm just trying to make you feel good." Caleb responds above the sound of Molly's mirth. "Since when has groping become so funny, hm?"

"You're not-" Molly begins before being cut off by his own laughter as Caleb dives back down into his neck, adding fake eating sounds along with his beard rubs. "I haha-hate yohou!"

"Hatred, all just because I wanted to kiss my own boyfriend." Caleb sighs dramatically which only makes Molly laugh more.

Fingers trickle their way up into Molly's ribs, slotting between the spaces on the bones and digging in with precise accuracy that has tears glistening in Molly's eyes.

Caleb laughs along with the purple tiefling below him as he keeps one hand on Molly's ribs and moves the other from his horns to his ear, gently tickling around the thin skin there.

"Okahahay!" Molly laughs, his limbs starting to go limp in Caleb's grip as his body loses energy, too tired to even shake his head to rid of the fingers at his ear. "Cahahaleb!"

Cakeb grins as he slows down his movement until he altogether stops. He rubs firmly at Molly's sides to help him come down from his tickle high.

"You alright?" Caleb asks softly, anxiety written on his face.

Molly nods as he pants, purple flush still on his face. "Yeah." He smiles. "It was fun."

Caleb's shoulders drop as he relaxes and smiles back. "Ja?"

"Yes." Molly grins widely and leans up to kiss Caleb. "We have to try that again sometime."

Caleb grins back and eagerly kisses him, following lower. "Oh yeah?"

Molly hums his agreement. "But, I must say," he says, tone filled with enough mischief that it sends a shiver down Caleb's spine. "I would love to see our places reversed, hm, Widogast?"

Caleb grins nervously back as his eyes flick down to the hands that were inching towards his sides. Perhaps Molly had been left with more energy than he thought.